


Investigations of an Underpaid Detective

by Larathia



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:22:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larathia/pseuds/Larathia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Green Arrow has started working, and Detective Quentin Lance needs to figure out who he is, why he is, and - if he gets that far - what to do about it. This fic is posted roughly at one chapter per week (one per episode) covering the effects of Arrow's work and the evidence Quentin can gather about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Pilot

Quentin sighed and leaned back in his chair, rolling the shaft in his fingers.

Who the _hell_ used _arrows_ against full automatics?

Well. This guy, obviously. This ...Robin Hood guy who jumped out of windows and zip-lined from building to building like a goddamned monkey. And made millions, _millions_ of dollars disappear.

He turned the green shaft in his fingers. This was way, way too much evidence to have no idea who the bastard actually was.

Quentin set the arrow down on his desk, next to the other arrows recovered. Custom made, definitely. The shafts were strong enough to support long cords and the weight of an adult without bending or snapping. The heads were simple, two-blade affairs and definitely custom made. Sturdy and sharp, but _flat_ \- like the chipped stone affairs you might dig out of an archaeological site.

You had to be a _good_ shot to hit a target at range with one of these. Used to the way they flew. He'd checked out hunting stores and archery ranges, and this lot...

He'd been joking when he'd suggested putting an APB out on Robin Hood, but with that particular sensation unique to oncoming headaches, he realized he might've spoken more truly than he'd realized. Someone out there had a really _delusional_ level of fixation, paired with the degree of skill required to actually make it work.

Quentin leaned back in his chair, frowning at the collection of arrows. So. Robin Hood. Good with the bow and arrow, clearly. Much better than most. He picked up a notepad and pen, and started putting down what he knew. Competiton-grade archery skill - okay, could check out the rec centers to see who taught archery, who the names in the field were. Fixation on Robin Hood...okay, maybe someone in the reenactment business, see who competed at or was known around the renfaire circuit.

What else?

Well...there were the arrows themselves. Custom jobs, shafts to tips. Could see if there had been any special orders; he made a note of it. If they were handmade, you still needed the tools and materials, that had to be out of the ordinary too. And that green paint was probably a custom order as well; he could check and see if that had a source.

There was the combat training. Military possibly, but not necessarily. The list there would be longer - any veterans in the area, as well as martial arts enthusiasts and self defense class teachers, but it would at least provide a broad starting list that the other factors involved might whittle down. Not a _lot_ of people could take on odds above three to one without a scratch, after all.

_Someone_ had stolen that money. That took a completely different skillset though. Hacker type skills. Maybe there was a team involved? Quentin made a note of it, and circled it. That part might narrow things down to a small pool, or widen them out to a group. He'd have to investigate that carefully.

Quentin eyed his list of notes, turned his gaze on the group of recovered arrows. Whoever he was, this guy wasn't done yet. There would probably be many more arrows recovered before he worked out the man's identity.

At least he was kind enough to use a big, unmistakable signature.


	2. Honor Thy Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Green Arrow's hunt of Martin Sommers has given the detective another piece of puzzle to work with.

Sommers now. The signature had been there to find, the custom made green arrows. And he'd made a good point, an _irritatingly_ good point. This was the second wealthy businessman targeted by _both_ his daughter and this vigilante.

Quentin turned the arrow around and around in his fingers. Sharp things. Razor sharp, as he'd demonstrated for Martin Sommers. There were a few holes in his desk that credit cards could stand up in. Either someone had the time to put his arrowheads through a grinder, or had the money to pay for real _quality_.

His inquiries at sporting good stores and archery ranges had yielded a lot of leads but nothing concrete. The arrows weren't being ordered through obvious channels, and there were twenty or thirty skilled archers in Starling City. At least, twenty or thirty men that _other people_ thought were good enough to be the Green Arrow. He couldn't exactly hold an archery contest to see who was the best. 

...As he recalled, that hadn't worked on Robin Hood, either. Although it was very _briefly_ amusing to wonder what sort of disguise his demented spiritual heir might come up with. 

He'd had that bastard in his sights. His _gun_ sights. He'd moved like a _snake_. If there were twenty to thirty men in the city who could knock his gun out of his hand while throwing a _voice_ recorder at the side of a storage container, he wasn't just in the wrong line of work, he was looking at a monstrous medical bill.

And there it was. A recorded confession, in what was unmistakably Martin Sommers' own voice. A murder confession. Everything his daughter needed.

Everything _he_ needed. And a way out - saving his daughter by doing his job was a nice change from the usual state of affairs.

And another piece of evidence for the pile. Custom electronics - because he was very sure no one _built_ voice recorders that could be thrown like shuriken. There just wasn't that big a market for it. Unless, apparently, you had delusions of being Robin Hood and a thing for the color green. 

He'd heard it said that while the poor might rebel against a government, it was often as a last resort; that a poor man would tolerate bad government over no government because the law was the only equalizer he had, even if it was a very poor one. That made the rich the true anarchists, who could by dint of their wealth manage to live without any laws at all, and objected vehemently any restraint upon their freedom to do as they pleased. He'd never paid it that much mind; the law was the law and he was happy to arrest anyone, rich or poor, if there was a solid enough case to convict. 

(It was the cases where there wasn't enough to convict that made him wonder how much truth there was to the idea. His daughter had an uncanny ability to nail him in the weakest possible spot; his own teachings. But there was a solid difference between a policeman trying to enforce the law and a father trying to protect his family, and the two roles were looking likely to have a smackdown in his skull any week now.)

Quentin ran his fingers over the little recorder. Not really valid evidence - he was audibly terrified, and Sommers' lawyers could easily and honestly claim the confession had been taken under duress. Quentin had seen the arrow holes in the crates, had seen how fast the vigilante could move. "Under duress" was an entirely valid defense, which was a shame, but there was at least enough evidence, if all else failed, for his daughter to pick that civil suit up again.

Unless of course Sommers was _so_ terrified of the vigilante that he pled guilty on the grounds that going to jail was safer than being shot at with a lot of arrows.

_The rich will tolerate no law at all_. This Robin Hood was definitely an anarchist, no question. The arrows were custom work, the voice recorder a custom piece. There wasn't enough yet to say for certain that it all wasn't _hand made_ instead of ordered from a manufacturer as a custom job, but the weight of probability suggested that he was looking at a vigilante with access to serious cash reserves.

A rich man with a problem with rich people. Then again - that fit with the myth of Robin Hood too, didn't it? Robin had been a nobleman, the stories said, before his family had lost everything and he went into Sherwood with the outlaws.

It couldn't be _that_ easy, could it? There had to be some deviation from the myth somewhere. Some part of reality that didn't fit into the neat little box of myth. Still...the detective wrote down "inherited wealth" on his notepad, circled it. The city's one-percenters were a very small and tightly knit bunch, but you didn't need quite _that_ level of wealth to buy a bunch of arrows. You did need wealth enough to buy them and enough leisure time to sharpen them _and_ go out hunting the citizenry, which let out most people with any kind of actual employment.

And there was his daughter. The vigilante hadn't targeted her, but there was the strong possibility of a connection and Quentin did not like those options at all. Even if the vigilante was just using his daughter's cases as a jumping off point for his own twisted echo of an investigation, it put his daughter in a very bad position. What if she did something the vigilante didn't like?

What if this delusional wannabe-Robin-Hood was thinking of his daughter as his Maid Marian? What would he do if she failed to live up to that image? If she backed off a case, maybe?

Quentin's blood ran cold at the thought. Granted his daughter was a (somtimes scarily) chip off the old block, and the harder you pushed her the harder she pushed back, but the reality was her position wasn't the best for a long drawn out war against the city's elite. Any kind of concerted response could take her right out of the vigilante's little anarchic game and...if he _hurt her_...

Swallowing, hating it, Quentin wrote "Laurel" on his notepad, and underlined it. Twice could be a coincidence. Not yet a solid lead. But he couldn't ignore it.

Archery. Electronics. Programming skills. Money. The list was getting a little bit longer each time the vigilante struck, and that suited Quentin fine. Sooner or later, his lists would converge and there it would be, the Green Arrow's identity.


	3. The Lone Gunmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's gotten a bit more to work with, but results will take time to get back to him. And there's the matter of the Green Arrow's "help"...

Quentin Lance scowled at the mass of paperwork covering his desk, both hands wrapped around his styrofoam coffee cup. Cheap, over-brewed precinct coffee. He'd lost two bets in the past week and now owed very _good_ coffee to everyone else for the next seven days.

The first was the in-house betting pool on the name to call their new vigilante. The media had yet to weigh in, thank goodness, but 'The Hood' had beaten 'The Arrow' and 'The Green Arrow Killer' by several votes. Given the hole that one of those green arrows had made in the hood of Quentin's _car_ , he wasn't as sanguine about losing that bet as he might have otherwise been. The damned thing had sheared through the steel car hood like _paper_. It rather fixed Quentin's mind on the vigilante's weaponry, over and above his wardrobe. And it, like all the others, now graced Quentin's personal evidence collection.

The second lost bet was a bit more complex. Hilton swore that the Hood was just another killer - sure, using a costume and an unusual weapon, but a killer. No more or less crazed than any other killer, no more of a problem. And on this point Quentin disagreed, firmly enough to wind up owing a lot of bought coffee over it, but the problem was proof. He didn't have it - just some hunches, and some evidence that Hilton had made clear (through reinterpretation) was entirely circumstantial.

What they _did_ have was a dead assassin. With a green arrow through his sniper's rangefinder as well as his eyeball, and the skull behind both.

And Quentin's computer screen verifying everything the Hood had snarled at him about the sniper's identity. Including the footnote about the curare.

What kind of crazed serial killer had access to the InterPol database? (Okay. _Serial killer_ possibly, but not crazed. This Hood guy was skewed, very badly and direly-in-need-of-therapy skewed, so bent you could probably use his brain to open wine bottles, but... _crazed_ was starting to look like pushing it.)

...How had the Hood known about the _curare_? Had he seen the note in the database and just passed it on? Or - and this was an intriguing idea - had he found the poison first, and used that signature to find Deadshot in the databases?

Quentin's folder of notes was gradually getting bigger with all his little diagrams, but he was a big believer in the Mountain of Evidence. Little things added up over time into an undeniable weight - provided you had enough to eventually avalanche into facts. He set the cup down, dragged his notepad over.

"Interpol" was one option. "Curare" was the other. What could be inferred from either approach?

Well...it wasn't like the planet was short of idiots willing to break the law. The databases were big. And the police did have access to it, but hadn't narrowed it down before the big shootout, so that implied some hefty savvy, or access to more information than the police had had at the time. Or just more time; it wasn't like this guy had been the only criminal in Starling in the past week, but the Hood seemed to be very specific.

...And it wasn't like he hadn't been motivated, Quentin realized. He set the notebook down, started laying out the Holder crime scene photographs again. The Hood had come in at the ground floor. Neutralized Holder's security forces, disarming them and knocking them out – _but not killing them_ , Quentin noted – and was on the rooftop with Holder when Deadshot fired from the next building over.

It wasn't as if this guy couldn't have just fired an arrow from the same building if _he_ had wanted Holder dead. Neutralizing the security suggested he hadn't been invited. The conversation had probably not been something the Hood had reason to believe Holder would be happy about. But he'd taken the long route anyway. 

And when Deadshot killed the Hood's target, presumably ending the conversation, _the Hood had fired back._ His arrows had been recovered from the scene, several of them.

Why? Why fire back? He'd clearly had no love for Holder, hadn't come to be polite, why fire back? Why not just _leave_? The conversation he'd worked to get was over, after all.

Anger at Deadshot for stealing his target? Or...had the Hood been in the line of fire? Defending himself? Deadshot had proven quite willing to take targets of opportunity at the auction. What if the Hood had been in his way?

People with the Hood's level of delusion could get very offended about being shot at. It was, at least, worth a check. He pulled over the keyboard, called up the email client, and sent a memo to the crime scene unit:

_To: CSI Dept._  
From: Det. Lance  
Subj: James Holder murder scene (Case #443) 

_Check the blood at the scene for possible trace left by the vigilante currently referred to as 'the Hood'. Arrows recovered at scene indicate his presence, need to know if he was injured at the scene. Run toxicology and DNA analysis if blood is recovered. Yes, I know it takes forever, do it anyway._

DNA wouldn't get back to the office for weeks, and at best would only catch someone already in the system, but it would be one more piece of evidence for the pile, one more nail when they finally had a guess as to who this Hood was.

Meantime, what _else_ did he have?

Well. He knew about the curare – which was rare in that it had been applied to a bullet and _not_ an arrow, but wasn't exactly rare as poisons went. Strychnine was popular, just not quite on the level of arsenic in the public awareness. He'd worked out Deadshot's identity, citing InterPol, but might have used other sources as well.

...He'd been concerned about the welfare of the bidders at the auction. He'd pinned Quentin to his own car, right outside the precinct's doors, because he 'couldn't protect them all'. 

And the Hood had guessed wrong about where Deadshot would take aim from. The custom made, stonebiting grappling arrow recovered from Deadshot's murder scene had made that fairly clear. The Hood had shown no problems about using the front door when he had the time, as he had at the Holder scene. Using the arrow suggested he hadn't known where to go until the sniper actually started shooting.  
There'd been blood at that scene too. More than just the victim's. More than just his downed officer's, too. He sent another note to the CSI department, requesting the garage be gone over with as much care as could be done given the nature of the site, and this time appended a promise of a box of donuts for the trouble.

They were only human after all, and gathering evidence in a parking garage – whose owners would want to reopen said garage ASAP – wouldn't be easy. There should be at least three contributors; Deadshot, the officer assigned to that post, and – ideally – the Hood. The arrow through the eyeball probably counted as a signature, but DNA was much harder evidence than aerial woodworking. 

What else?

Well...there was the laptop. The laptop was...frustrating. If they'd recovered it at Deadshot's hotel room, the key to which they'd recovered from his corpse, it would have been an airtight case against Warren Patel. Slam dunk, as they said – he'd have been lucky not to get the chair. 

But it _hadn't_ been recovered from the hotel room. The Hood had left it resting against his arrow, punched through the hood of Quentin's car. And while it did clearly implicate Warren Patel as Deadshot's employer, providing helpful blueprints of the auction site and everything, the _point_ was that Quentin could not, now, prove that the Hood hadn't _made it all up_.

After all. The Hood had money. Time. Funds. And a peculiar interest in the welfare of the upper class, at least -

“Is the coffee _that_ bad?” laughed Hilton, waving a hand in front of Quentin's face, and completely derailing his train of thought. He scowled up at his partner.

“Since you ask, yeah,” he answered bluntly, reaching for the cup. “What's new?”

Detective Hilton passed over a piece of paper. “Writ from Patel's lawyer. Claims we fabricated evidence and the judge agreed the laptop's inadmissible. Too many fingerprints we can't trace, suspect source. Without that we've got nothing.”

“And you wonder why the coffee tastes bad,” growled Quentin, setting the cup down very carefully in case it accidentally got thrown at a keyboard or other piece of expensive government property. “I wish to God this damned vigilante would _stop helping us_. We could have had Patel if he'd just left the laptop wherever he found it!”

“Hey now,” said Hilton, reaching out to put a hand on Quentin's arm. “We'll get him. And we've lifted a lot of prints off the keys, they've got to belong to _someone_ and it's damn sure not the vic. We'll get him.”

“And Patel?” demanded Quentin. “The laptop was all the proof we had!”

“A man so desperate as to hire an international assassin so he can win a business at an auction is dumb enough to screw up twice,” Hilton offered patiently. “We'll stick him on the short list and when he gives us an excuse, make sure the warrant includes his financial records.”

Quentin got to his feet. “Yeah. If he doesn't shred them first. I'm going to take a walk. Clear my head.”  
“That a good idea?” asked Hilton, bluntly.

“I'm gonna owe the guys in the evidence analysis labs a whole doughnut factory by the time we're done here,” Quentin said shortly, on his way to the door. “Gonna go see if I can find any deals.”


	4. An Innocent Man/Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit delayed, both because I didn't get a chance to record "An Innocent Man" until the following Tuesday, and because "An Innocent Man" and "Damaged" are really a two-parter, with no pause in the action between episodes.
> 
> I hope you find it worth the wait.

Quentin woke up on the couch of his own home, nursing the mother and father of hangovers, and the morning sun was cruel and merciless in its brightness. He squinted vaguely ceilingward for a while, debating whether cutting his head off at the shoulders would save time in the long run, before eventually deciding that no, this was fair. Holding his skull together with one hand, he rolled off the couch. Onto his knees then on his feet, he staggered his way into the kitchen for coffee. Lots, and lots, of coffee.

The coffee pot was half full before he was awake enough to realize there was someone in the kitchen.

"I called you in sick at the precinct," said Laurel, keeping her tone low, as she sipped her own coffee. 

Quentin's eyes still didn't want to focus with all this damned sunlight around, but he thought he could smell eggs. And bacon. It wasn't helping the state of his health any at the moment. The coffee was taking for _ever_. He slumped into a chair and put his head down on his hands. It was darker that way. "Do I still have a job?"

"Actually, yes," said Laurel, almost gently. "But Ms. Spencer isn't in a good mood today. And given you've been doing almost nothing else for weeks but putting this case together..." she shrugged. "Today wasn't looking like a day you'd get anything done anyway. And I was worried about you."

"You can't see him, Laurel," pleaded Quentin, unable to stop himself. "Oliver. I mean it. You can't see him. He's dangerous. He's a _killer_."

His daughter reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze before getting up to pour coffee. "Dad. Calm down. I know. Okay? I _know_. I told Oliver. It can't go anywhere. I won't see him." She set the coffee in front of him. "All right?"

_Ohthankgod._ At that moment he couldn't have said whether the sentiment was more for the coffee or his daughter's sudden burst of good sense. He took a big swallow of coffee - and then tried not to spray it all over the table, as it was a lot hotter than he'd been ready for. It scalded all the way down though, the burn competing with his throbbing skull.

When his coughing fit subsided, she said, "Dad, did you take a good look at Oliver's polygraph results?"

"The tech said he was telling the truth," croaked Quentin miserably. "I know he was lying."

"He _was_ lying, dad," said Laurel gently. "You asked him if he'd ever been to the prison. And he has been. It was a field trip for school, but I was with him. He's been there, and he lied about it."

Hangover, burned tongue, scalded throat...hope. "...You believe me?" he asked, trying not to let too much ride on her answer. God, what he wouldn't give for _anyone_ to believe him right now.

"I'm...I'm not sure," Laurel admitted. "I - he showed me the scars, something definitely happened to him on that island, but...the Hood is a real killer. The Oliver I knew couldn't be like that. But this isn't the Oliver I knew. And I don't know...I don't know _anything_ about him."

The flare of hope faded again. He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her that in fact he knew a great deal about this new Oliver, that everything _fitted_ once you put Oliver Queen in the Hood's costume. He wanted, more than anything, to tell his daughter the whole thing and have her believe him. He wanted to give his little girl every possible weapon to defend herself with, protect her from the fate that had claimed her sister.

Instead, he kept his mouth shut and focused his attention on his coffee. This whole business, the whole arrest and interrogation and having "Ms." Spencer hand him his ass on a plate with added firebreath-searing and winding up _saving Oliver Queen_ and eating a hell of a lot of crow business, it had taught him something. A few somethings, very valuable somethings.

One: Oliver Queen was _definitely_ the Hood. The first Hood, anyway.  
Two: He might be rich and spoiled but an idiot, Oliver Queen was not.  
Three: Oliver had not just played Sarah and Laurel. He'd played Quentin too. And won.  
Four: Oliver Queen had no room in his life for anyone but himself. Anyone and everyone else was expendable, anyone and everyone else was a manipulable tool.

It was then, when the harsh light of these realizations had hit him, that he'd decided he needed a drink. A big drink, in a lot of small glasses, with a lot of even smaller glasses to keep them company.

His daughter had feelings for a soulless killer. And he couldn't warn her because doing so would just fuel this stupid perception of 'vendetta'. She'd met the Hood and lied to his face to protect the Hood. And now Oliver-the-Hood had effectively played her _again_ , after seeing his true self had frightened her. He'd confused her, just enough so that she didn't know which way was up around him, didn't know what to believe.

Quentin knew that there came a time in every parent's life when they had to sit on every instinct they'd nurtured for years, and trust that they raised their child right, and let their child face the world alone. It didn't stop him from firmly believing the world was being more than a bit unfair that the test for his daughter was realizing she was too close to a serial killer.

Looking into his daughter's worried eyes, Quentin decided he wasn't going to sink to Oliver's level. Oh, he'd shoot the Hood if given a chance - within legal boundaries. But he wasn't going to lie to his daughter, and he wasn't going to manipulate her feelings the way Oliver was clearly already doing.

He would nail the rich bastard fair and square, and when he did, he would nail Oliver Queen's ass to the _wall_ with the full weight of the law behind him.

Hopefully before Oliver-the-Hood had gotten his daughter _so_ screwed up that she completely lost sight of the law and he wound up having no choice but to arrest her too, because at that point...at that point maybe it was better to take an early retirement and move to Metropolis. He'd heard the cops there had a much easier time with their resident vigilante. Didn't kill people, or torture people, or _anything_.

"Dad?" asked Laurel, breaking his chain of thought. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine," said Quentin. "Just too much to drink, that's all. Any chance there's breakfast left?"

Laurel smiled. "Yeah. Maybe you should get cleaned up? I'll make a breakfast for you before I go back to the office. I was worried for you."

_Feeling's mutual, kid,_ thought Quentin, but didn't say anything. He gave his daughter a little, sheepish smile and disappeared into the bathroom to peel off yesterday's clothes and clean up.

~*~

The hot water and the coffee, paired with some aspirin, cleared Quentin's head enough that by the time he'd gotten out of the shower and dressed, he felt somewhere near human.

Laurel, as she'd promised, had left a plate of cooling eggs and bacon on the table for him. He was oddly proud of that - not that she cooked for him, but that she thought about other people. There weren't many lawyers who remembered how to be kind. Like cops, most saw too much of the dark side of humanity to have much faith in it.

Now that she wasn't here, though, he felt comfortable in not smiling. The sick day would be handy, he needed the time to think. Because that bastard had played him like a teenybopper's favorite mp3, right into file death. And he was _not_ happy about it.

The evidence was there. It was all there. So the Hood appeared at _one_ site while Oliver had a thorough alibi. That didn't discount the idea that the Hood had recruited a copycat for the purpose of creating reasonable doubt. All the _other_ appearances, Oliver had _no_ good alibi for, and that was a lot of lack-of-alibi for a man who supposedly had a bodyguard watching him 24/7. There had been a second DNA trace at the Unidac site that didn't match the blood found at the Sommers murder scene. It _wasn't_ stretching it to say the Hood had taken on an apprentice, called in a favor, or maybe just inspired a copycat.

And it fit everything else. The money. The disregard for the law - and the Queen family was just about _notorious_ for that. Oliver's time on the island had clearly, as he'd said at the interrogation, turned the playboy into a killer. The Hood had turned up only after Oliver's return. And if he'd picked up all these dangerous killer-skills on the island, it would explain why his inquiries into the world of archery had turned up nothing. With the Queen fortune and a playboy's free time, Oliver could buy whatever toys he wanted and hide it in the corporate or family accounts - or even just build it all from scratch, though Quentin would admit to surprise if _that_ was the kind of skill you could pick up on a hell-island.

No. Quentin didn't doubt he'd gotten the right man when he pointed the finger at Oliver Queen. Hell, it even fit the sick fascination the Hood seemed to have for Laurel - using her, claiming admiration for her, but making her an accessory to his crimes all the same. The behavior of the Hood exactly matched Oliver's emotional manipulation of Laurel once charges had been filed. Oliver Queen was _definitely_ the Hood. And Quentin did not doubt that Oliver would throw Laurel under whatever bus happened along if it suited his goals. Oh, he might be _sorry_ about it - or at least say he was - but that wouldn't stop it _happening_.

And Oliver had used Quentin's own very well-documented dislike of him to his own advantage, casting a very lawful and thorough investigation as harassment and vendetta. And he'd won. _But goddamnit, the fact that I hate you for it does not mean I'm in the wrong._

The sound of the phone ringing in the silence of the empty house didn't just jolt Quentin out of his thoughts, it nearly caused a spillfest of coffee over his table. He set the nearly-empty mug down and went to answer it. "Yeah?"

_"Detective Lance, this is Ms. Kate Spencer, city prosecutor's office. We spoke the other day?"_

God, the woman had the social graces of a crack pipe. But he put a bright, chipper, yes-ma'am in his voice and answered, "Yes ma'am. I remember." He remembered a lot of being snarled at to shut the hell up and not screw the case up any further, really, but in light of events he had to concede she had a point. Even if he didn't like it.

_"We've noticed that you've had all charges against Oliver Queen dropped, detective. I'd like to know why."_

Fuuuuck. Quentin's eyes closed. A lot of yesterday evening was kind of a blur, now. "Because the Hood was witnessed on the other side of the city while Mr. Queen was under my personal surveillance, ma'am. Along with a few hundred partygoers."

_"I believe you claimed to have captured Mr. Queen, as the Hood, on video?"_ droned Ms. Spencer's voice. The tone suggested not boredom, but the idea that possibly she was considering whether to have someone beaten. _"Does Mr. Queen have an alibi for any of the actual charges laid against him?"_

"No, ma'am," said Quentin, keeping his tone bright and helpful, but covering his eyes with his free hand. "But what I have on video is him grabbing the Hood's costume, not putting it on. His family's likely to drop a civil suit on the city for harassment if I keep pursuing this."

The other line went silent, save for a soft, _"Hmmmmm."_

"I'm sorry I didn't notify your office sooner," Quentin offered. "I needed to make sure the civil suit didn't happen. The Queen family can throw a lot of money at this."

_"Tell me, detective. Is this a vendetta? Can you prove it isn't?"_

Fuuuuuckfuckfuck. "I think I can, ma'am. But I'm going to need to build a stronger case." _And be a lot quieter about it._ Oliver had skewered his position with that vendetta thing. It made all the evidence look contrived.

_"Very well, detective. But from here on in, if you want the support of this office, you will keep us in the loop. Is that clear? I want copies of every avenue you're pursuing, data on every shred of evidence you collect. And you are not going to go off half-cocked again, is that clear? You will make no arrest, file no charges, without first clearing it with this office. Am I making myself understood?"_

Quentin didn't answer right away. It was just a shock to realize someone genuinely believed him, believed in the case he was building. That it was a bulldozer like Kate Spencer was just added shock on the cream pie of stunned. "Yes, ma'am," he managed.

_"Thank you,"_ said Ms. Spencer, in a flat, blunt tone. _"I'll be expecting a complete copy of your casework thus far in my office by the end of the week."_ And then the line went dead.

Quentin leaned flat against his kitchen wall, and hung up the phone. Someone believed him. It might not be the right someone, but someone believed him.

Just as he was about to declare the day vastly improved, though, a thought hit him. 

He'd saved Oliver Queen's life last night. 

Someone _else_ believed him, too.

But who?


	5. Legacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An episode where my good Detective Lance doesn't appear _at all_! Where was he? Well, it's a bit AU this week since we're not told, but I came up with a theory nonetheless.

They sat in a booth in a fairly expensive restaurant, one known in the precinct for its strict adherence to discretion. Quentin disliked the place more or less on principle - at least half the couples here were a businessman and his mistress, and more than one handshake deal had gone down in the quiet corners. 

On the other hand, it was also the kind of place the Hood would have a hard time getting into without causing a mass exodus, and also the kind of place Oliver Queen couldn't enter without causing a noticeable murmur of commentary. And so it was perfect.

He didn't like Kate Spencer much either. She was blunt, and willing to make deals if it just meant getting perps off the streets, but when it came to him _personally_ she was about as forgiving as an ox with a pineapple up its tail. 

Possibly he just didn't like her because she was right. He'd screwed up, walked right into the Hood's - Oliver's - trap, set the whole case back by months, maybe years. Quentin didn't enjoy being reminded of his mistakes, and Kate wasn't the sort to let him forget.

Folders sat on the table between them, demarcation of the common ground.

"You realize, I have to ask _how_ you got DNA from Oliver Queen," she said quietly.

"I took his ankle bracelet for testing after releasing him from house arrest," said Quentin. He didn't need to add, _after I got over the hangover_. She knew that part already. 

Kate sipped at her coffee, looking through the pages. "So...we've got him for aggravated assault in the Holder case," she said. "The assault and restraint of Holder's security team. Queen's blood and arrows at the scene. But the murder was Floyd Lawton. And the DNA recovered at _Lawton's_ murder scene is not a match, and we don't have DNA for any of the other Hood cases."

"What we've _got_ is proof that Queen wears the Hood," insisted Quentin, trying to keep his voice down.

"Agreed," Kate nodded. "So we now know he's one of at least two people using that disguise. But we don't know," she raised a tired hand to forestall Quentin's immediate protest, "all right, we can't _prove_ , that Queen is the one doing the killing. The Hood doesn't always kill his targets. That inconsistent behavior supports the case for more than one Hood, but at least for now lets Queen off the hook for the charges we need to make stick."

"He's a killer," said Quentin flatly. "He'll screw up eventually."

"And how many bodies will be in the street before then, detective?" asked Kate flatly. "We've lost enough momentum due to your underestimating this man. Whatever he's become, he played you like your own tiny violin solo."

He _really_ did not like Kate Spencer. He pushed another file toward her. "There's the latest," he said. "Another change in methodology if you don't look close."

Quentin focused - or at least tried to look like he was focusing - on a plate of chicken alfredo while the lawyer looked over the file. "Not quite small potatoes," Kate pointed out first. "The Royal Flush gang have been operating for years, hit at least three cities."

"But they're _not_ the rich suit-and-tie types he's been going after up to now," Quentin pointed out.

Kate picked at a chef salad idly with one hand as she turned the pages. "Ah. I'm seeing why you're so interested. Former Queen Steel employee and his family. It doesn't look like he showed them any mercy, however."

"The Hood shot Ace," Quentin pointed out, indicating the report. "Identified as Kyle Reston, the older son."

"Just because Derek Reston once worked for the Queens, doesn't make for a solid connection," Kate pointed out tiredly. "It doesn't matter what the man's job _was_. What mattered was that he _lost_ that job and turned to crime."

"Nah, I'm not buying that," Quentin replied. "Oliver woulda taken this personally. Check page twenty three."

Kate obliged, munching a crouton while she read. "...The Hood told the security guard to back off? That _is_ unusual."

Quentin grinned. "And it's the guard that killed the King, Derek Reston. Claimed he was aiming for Kyle and Derek got in the way."

"Well, he would," Kate noted mildly. "Father protecting son."

"Keep reading," Quentin nodded.

"Hood sent the guard for medical assistance," Kate noted, reading on. Then tapped the page. "What's this?"

"A bug," said Quentin. "I think the Hood had the Royal Flush gang under surveillance. The device is small and I doubt Reston knew it was there, but it opens the possibility that the Hood was controlling the gang."

Kate's lips pursed. "That's a stretch. But definitely observing, I'll grant you that. The bug is one way - listening only. May be how the Hood knew where they would be." She closed the folder. "I note that half the Royal Flush are still at large. Queen and Jack - presumably the wife and the younger son."

"We've got what information we have on them on circulation to the hotels and gas stations," Quentin said. "But if they're smart at all they'll take their money and hide."

"Mmm," said Kate, finishing her perusal of the report. "It seems Oliver Queen left a business card with Reston. Your partner seems reasonably thorough. And unbiased; the statement from family Queen is that Reston was offered legal employment but refused. Clearly he felt robbing banks was more profitable."

"You _know_ it wasn't a coincidence," growled Quentin. 

"Of course I know," said Kate. "Oh you're right, the evidence is circumstantial but piling up like a little avalanche. We're going to need more though. We need to be able to establish Oliver Queen's exact relationship to the Hood, who else is also 'the Hood', and most of all we need to be able to prove that Queen is the one _in_ that hood when a serious crime happens. Something we can put even the wealthy Mr. Queen in a federal penitentiary for, and not a white collar resort. Have you made any progress with the DNA found at Lawton's murder scene?"

Quentin shook his head. "Not a match to anything yet. But we'll get him."

"I salute your optimism," said Kate, conversationally, and set about finishing her salad. "When are you expected to return to active duty?"

"Soon, I hope," Quentin sighed. "Hilton's done all right with this case, it's not that. I just -"

"Need to be working," said Kate, with a faint smile that might have had nothing to do with what she was saying. "Understandable. Remember our agreement. You don't do _anything_ that jeopardizes this case again. And you don't make a move against Queen without me. Let's find out who he's working with first."

Quentin gave her his brief, 'yeahyeahsuresure' smile. The honest truth was, Oliver Queen scared him. The level of cold manipulation the man was capable of - not just of his enemies but of those who loved him as well, paired with the damn near freakish levels of competency in violence he'd picked up while shipwrecked, had created a monster that Quentin didn't honestly know how to stop. But the law _had_ to stop people like that from hurting others, or what the hell was it good for?

Kate Spencer studied him with, he considered, the same level of studious care a scientist might study a bacteria culture. "I'm so glad we have these little talks, detective," she said, in a tone that suggested she honestly didn't. "Same time next week?"

"Yeah, sure," said Quentin, getting up. "Thanks for the pasta."


	6. Muse of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a post-episode fic this time, but during-episode. Thus, scenes from the ep have been woven in with my own thoughts, hopefully to create a decent whole.

"Copycat," Hilton decided, tossing the report onto the desk. "Ballistics confirmed. This is the third one."

"If we're _lucky_ it's a copycat," Quentin replied, picking up the file to look over. "But it doesn't look like one. No signature. No costume. Just your standard drive by shootings. Same _gun_ , that's all."

"Except for the fact that they're _all_ tied to Bertinelli," Hilton pointed out. "So if it's not a copycat then what? Housecleaning? Someone declaring war? One of the other crime families, maybe?"

Quentin Lance winced. "God I hope not." He set the file down on his desk. "We don't have anything like the manpower - it'd be a warzone."

Not that it wasn't edging in that direction anyway. With every hit, Bertinelli was getting measurably more agitated, edging near desperate. Approaching Queen Consolidated for a contract? The Queens weren't exactly model citizens by any means, but the mob was, in a peculiar way, beneath them. Too blue-collar or something, Lance supposed. 

No, what bothered him just at the moment was that his initial fears about the Hood were coming true; he hadn't been able to formally catch the bastard, and now his example was clearly inspiring others to take the vigilante path. Because hey, who _wouldn't_ kill their worst enemy if all you had to do to get away with it was come up with a silly costume? And this one, whoever he was, was lighting a very short fuse on a very large powder keg.

“By the way,” said Hilton, too casually, “good to see you've gotten your head out of the clouds. About the Hood, I mean. We'll catch the guy. It's just...you know. Not great to get too focused on the one case.”

Quentin gave his partner the blank, hard look that was the best he could do at lying. “Yeah. Well. Getting put on suspension is great for clearing the head. Next time, bring a guy some grapes or something.” 

“Right,” said Hilton blandly. “You're my partner, not my girlfriend. And you weren't listening to me anyway. What do we do about -”

Another detective walked by at a fast stride. "Get moving, there's been another one. Right outside Queen Consolidated."

Both Lance and Hilton got up and grabbed their gear. "Any word on who's hit?" asked Quentin, pulling on his jacket as they headed for their squad car.

"Some guy and Moire Queen," was all he got back.

It wasn't good news. As Lance and Hilton got into their car and pulled out, heading for the scene, Hilton noted, "Wasn't one of Bertinelli's boys going there today?"

Quentin nodded. "Paul something. There's a photo in the file. If we've got _another_ one -"

"Then Bertinelli's lost four to the same shooter," Hilton finished grimly, flipping through he file as Quentin drove. "He's not gonna sit still for this much longer."

There was one upside, though, Quentin thought. If Moire Queen had been hit, that was a fairly solid indicator that the Hood _wasn't_ directly involved. There was something ferociously bent about Oliver Queen - bent, twisted, corkscrewed, broken - but Quentin didn't think the guy would condone anyone shooting his mother. That was still a guess though; it wasn't the kind of theory he'd want to put weight on.

He pulled the car over to the curb as they reached Queen Consolidated, leaving plenty of room for the paramedics. By their businesslike, leisurely demeanor, they were waiting for a coroner. Quentin shared a look with his partner as they got out of the car; someone was definitely dead.

"Number four," said Hilton quietly, as they got close enough to see the body. Definitely not Moire Queen. He showed Quentin the photo; the dead man was definitely Bertinelli's messenger boy. 

Quentin nodded, and turned to the Paramedics, while Hilton moved off to question witnesses. "Anyone else hurt?"

"Yeah," said one of them, nodding. "She's already off to the hospital. Mrs. Queen. Didn't look critical, but it was a very near miss."

"Thanks," nodded Quentin. "Which hospital, by the way?" He raised his notepad. "Need to get her statement."

He jotted down the paramedic's answer and went to find Hilton. One of the Queens getting hurt would definitely catch the Hood's interest, however many of them there actually were. But whether Moire had been a secondary target or just a bystander caught by a stray bullet remained to be seen.

"You're not going to believe this," Hilton said as he finished writing a note. "Several people say they saw a guy chase after the shooter. On foot."

Quentin pursed his lips, but didn't rise to the bait. His working theory that Oliver was one of possibly several Hoods was _not_ a popular one around the precinct, and he didn't want another suspension. Instead, he said, "Mrs. Queen's at the hospital. Paramedic on scene said she's probably in a shape fit to talk."

"You know, we keep turning up on their doorstep, sometime they're going to hit on the idea of a harassment suit," warned Hilton.

"Not their doorstep this time," said Quentin, heading back to the car. "And this time we're on their side." _More or less, anyway._

~*~

As they rounded the last corner on the route to Moire's room, Quentin at least wasn't surprised to see the Clan Queen hovering around the doorway, with Oliver playing the outcast in the hall. Hilton - perhaps a little too keen to prevent trouble - moved as if to put an arm to block Quentin from approaching, but let it go when he realized his partner had no such intention.

Which he didn't. Quentin had learned that lesson, for now anyway. Don't bite the Queens without titanium teeth. No, biting wasn't what he had in mind. He wanted information, and willing or not, Oliver would provide him some.

"Detectives," offered Oliver, in the same formally guilty tone used by citizens who'd been pulled over anywhere. "D'you have any leads on the shooter?"

"Not yet," said Hilton, looking Oliver up and down. "Did you get a good look at him?"

"No," said Oliver, and Quentin refused to smile. _So it was you who ran after the shooter._ "He was wearing a helmet."

"Don't worry," said Hilton. "We'll find him."

"My head of security's on his way," said Oliver, watching Quentin. "I want to make sure there are men outside my mother's door. She needs to be protected."

Quentin had been right. This shooter wasn't in the Hood's cadre. And whoever he was, he'd just pissed the Hood off - or the Hood-ringleader. He kept the smile off his face, but couldn't quite keep it out of his tone as he answered, "Well, you know your family's at the tippy-top of _my_ list of priorities, but the guy she was with was connected." Was this what it felt like to have a tiger on the leash? He could _see_ the wrath in Oliver's eyes, and there was something dangerously fun about knowing it wasn't aimed at himself. "Mobbed up to the eyeballs, connected. She wasn't the target."

Which was stretching it a bit, but worth throwing out there. He wasn't, yet, entirely sure Moire had been a genuinely innocent bystander; Bertinelli had been approaching her for a contract, and the shooter was definitely aiming to put the hurt on Bertinelli. Shooting anyone willing to deal with him seemed like a reasonable assumption. But - if Oliver was who and what Quentin suspected, he'd do the city more good (or at least less harm) if he didn't go on a rampage just to avenge his mother.

As Oliver stalked past, Hilton turned to give his partner a bemused, _What the fuck did you just do?_ look. 

Quentin ignored it. "And you're welcome," Quentin said to the empty air where Oliver had been. He shook his head at his partner's Look, smiled, and led the way to the now less-guarded room where Moire rested.

~*~

"So what was that all about?" asked Hilton, as they headed back to the precinct. "You _trying_ for another suspension?"

"Just letting him know the universe doesn't revolve around the Family Queen," Quentin answered. "And by the way, you didn't tell me it was him the witnesses saw tearing after the shooter."

"Wasn't sure it _was_ him until he answered me," said Hilton. "And you've been so good about getting up their noses lately, I didn't want to give you the excuse. And see, I was right. You just had to _see_ Oliver Queen's nose and bam. You're like a cold in reverse. You need to lay the hell off the Queens. Just because they're overpriveleged rich people doesn't mean they're _automatically_ the bad guys."

Quentin just snorted at that - Hilton didn't really believe it any more than he did himself. But he did appreciate the warning; another suspension wouldn't do him or his career prospects any good. "I'll try and behave," he said. "Now quit being a mother hen. You _know_ Bertinelli's got to respond to this."

"Yeah," Hilton nodded. "Guess we're manning the bugs."

"Yep," Quentin nodded. "Another double shift. I'll bring the coffee."

"Damn right you will," Hilton agreed. "And the good stuff this time."

They returned to their desks, sorting through the paperwork of the statements and evidence reports, with earpieces tuned to the ongoing wiretaps of Bertinelli's key lieutenants. A lot of work had gone into the surveillance, but Bertinelli's mob were extremely careful about their phrasing. The best they could hope for was to catch something clear enough to be linked to a crime. 

They worked in relative silence for several hours, sorting through the pile of statements and the evidence reports, now and then getting up to stick something particularly relevant on the whiteboard. That was all most of police work was; sifting through the piles for the flakes of gold, then putting those few truly useful pieces together into a picture of the crime and the criminal. Around them, the precinct underwent shift change, gradually emptying out as the night shift went on patrol.

"Still thinking this is a Hood copycat," grumbled Hilton, shoving a report away from him. "Just instead of rich people, now it's mob people. Probably a mob hitman cashing in on the trend."

"Could be," Quentin agreed. "But not connected to the Hood. The Hood's aim is better. We're _still_ processing shell casings from these hits. That's way too sloppy for any friend of the Hood."

Hilton scowled. "But taking out _bad guys_ , Quentin. That's right up the Hood's alley. Aim just takes time. Maybe this hit man's on a schedule."

"God, I hope not," sighed Quentin. "I'd hate to see what the deadline looks like."

Both paused the halfhearted bickering as their earpieces crackled. A call coming in. 

_"Salvati."_  
"We agree to meet. Site in fifteen."  
"Agreed." 

The line went dead again, and the two detectives gave each other a brief nod. Both set down their pens and went to the whiteboard and the recording devices. "Site" had to be Bertinelli Constructions' current large worksite - already bugged, so that wouldn't be an issue. They just needed to make sure the transmission would be recorded, in case the mob boss was - for once - indiscreet.

_"Thank you for coming."_  
"Anything for a friend."  
[Chinese]  
"We're not responsible for the attacks on your people."  
"These attacks on my business, on my family's lifeblood, they stop now. Or I'm coming for you."  
[pause, engine sounds, silence]  
"What does the Triad have to gain by provoking you?"  
"Well, no one ever credited the Triad with rational thinking. If not them, then who? Whoever it is, whenever I find out who's behind this, there will be blood." 

Quentin hit the switch to stop the speaker broadcast, letting the recording continue. 

"Sounds like Bertinelli's ready to put the screws to whoever pays him protection money," noted Hilton.

"Yeah, well, three of his best earners have been murdered," Quentin agreed, thinking things over. "He's gotta make up the cash somewhere." Getting up, he went to look over the whiteboard. "Whoever's pruning the family tree is looking to make Bertinelli suffer."

"So you _do_ think it's one of the other families," said Hilton. 

"No," said Quentin, a touch impatiently. That was Hilton's theory, not his own. 

"Then who?" asked Hilton.

"Well, according to the coroner's reports," Quentin answered, turning to look at his partner, "none of the vics took a clean shot. Half the bullets missed. Our killer's not a pro."

"That's not stopping him from pulling that trigger," Hilton pointed out.

"That's up to us," Quentin dismissed. "Now this," and he turned back to the whiteboard, "is gonna blow up into an all-out mob war."

Hilton studied the whiteboard too. "So. If it's not one of the other families, and it's not a pro, then who?" he asked. "Someone with a grudge? The mob killed their mother, or sister, or something like that?"

"Well, if that's the motive, and Bertinelli cracks down on the people paying him protection," mused Quentin, "Then they might sit watch on one of the extortionees, to shoot the enforcers when they come by." He looked toward Hilton. "Where'd we put that list?"

Hilton nodded, and went back to his desk, shuffling through the files. "I know the one you're talking about."

But he didn't have to find it; every phone in the office started ringing in unison. That only happened when the dispatcher on duty was trying to reach someone, _anyone_ , and had no idea who was on shift. Quentin went for his phone, but Hilton - already at his desk - answered first.

"Detective Hilton." He stood, stoically, listening. "Who took the call?" He cradled the phone against his shoulder as he snagged pen and paper to write it down. "Uhhuh. Yeah. They're sure? Yeah." He looked toward Quentin, and added, "There's probably gonna be a lot more like that. Call me with a running count and the locations as they come in. And tell the guys who take the calls to send copies of the report to my desk. Thanks."

He hung up, but didn't need to explain the situation to Quentin. "The crackdown's already started," he guessed, and Hilton nodded.

"One of Bertinelii's cash cows just got cracked down on hard enough to put people in the hospital," his partner agreed, as he started looking for that list again. "The call was a 911, probably because somebody panicked. They weren't happy to see police lights." He tossed his notepad to Quentin. "That's the address. Let me find the file, you go see if there's any surveillance on that address we can use."

Quentin nodded, picking up the phone to call the officers handling surveillance. If nothing else, tonight might be the night they finally got enough evidence on Bertinelli to shut his mob down. They were afraid, and lashing out; in cases like that, there was a fair chance a good likeness might be caught on film, a name recorded on tape. Something concrete enough that no 'mistaken identity' defense would work.

"Got it," he heard Hilton proclaim, and glanced over to see his partner waving a file. "Lemme just go make a markable copy."

"I'll be in surveillance," said Quentin, and headed that way. "Bring your copies over there."

The men handling surveillance were good at things like image enhancements, and knowing just where to cut footage to get the most damning evidence. It wasn't a _large_ department, but everyone needed some variation of tech support these days. He plunked the address in front of the guy condemned to night shift tonight and said, "We need everything from the past hour to about now."

The bored tech picked up the address, looked it over, and got to work. Soon enough there was footage playing on the screen - a bakery, after closing. The lone employee on duty was handling the closing cleanup.

Hilton came over, with his copied file - now sporting a line through two addresses. "They got another one just now," he said, looking at the screen. Several men were being allowed in after closing. The lights weren't on, and mostly what the camera showed were identity-less backlit figures. He winced sympathetically at the owner's pleas for mercy, and then cries of pain.

The tech clicked end-cut after the shadowed group left again. "Nothing useful from the first site," he said. "Too dark. Toss me the next address."

Hilton passed it over, and then - hearing his phone ring from down the hall - ran back to his desk to answer it where there was handy paper. The calls kept coming in as they worked - raking through surveillance footage to see if anything, anything at all, were useful.

Finally, sometime after the fourth call, the tech said, "Hey. I think we've got something."

After half an hour of feeling like terriers chasing one very fast, very homicidal rabbit, Quentin was happy to take a look. The crackdown at what looked like an italian restaurant had definitely not gone unopposed - but the footage, while clear enough to show what was happening, was depressingly vague on making clear the doers. "Is this the only angle you got?"

"The Russos chintzed out a bit on their security package," the tech shrugged. 

"Somebody is in the wings with a gun, shooting at these guys," protested Quentin. Then an idea struck. A long shot, but, "What d'you got from earlier?"

"What do you mean?" asked the tech. "Before the shooting?"

"Yeah," nodded Quentin.

The tech, clearly puzzled about this line of questioning, nevertheless tried to answer. "Business dinner, birthday dinner, couple of blind dates -"

"Any guests of the Chinese persuasion?" asked Quentin, wondering if the people fighting back might be Triad.

"Why?" asked the tech.

"Humor me," was all Quentin wanted to say. Performance reviews were nearing and he'd had enough laughably bad calls this year.

The tech obediently started looking through footage, zooming in on diners to see if any faces were recognizable. Quentin stared as features _he_ recognized flickered briefly into view. "Whoa, whoa, wait a second." 

He moved to snag the mouse from the hand of the surprised - and just a touch offended - tech, getting a passive-aggresive, "Help yourself," that he fully ignored. It didn't matter. The camera showed clearly - Oliver Queen had been at that restaurant just a short time before, and with Bertinelli's daughter.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed. So the two fighting were the Hood and...someone, but if the someone was Helena Bertinelli, then everything slotted neatly into place. The grudge against the Bertinelli family wasn't just the average 'you killed my lover, prepare to die' revenge. It was personal on a whole other level beyond that, and fueled by the innate lawlessness found only in the very rich. Add in the mob family acceptance of violence as a solution and you got a rich girl who wouldn't see a damn thing wrong with shooting people she was mad at. Even if she was a lousy shot.

Someone who wouldn't see a damn thing wrong with turning the whole city into a warzone if it just meant getting back at daddy.

He stared at the screen, not really seeing it. The footage wouldn't help. It was too dark. And you had to buy, first, the theory that Oliver Queen was indeed the Hood, and he was the only detective willing to accept that theory. But - if you _did_ , then the Hood arriving at the same time as this other vigilante made sense. They'd basically just had time to go find their costumes and come back.

There was one benefit at least. The two of them had done enough damage to Frank Bertinelli's enforcers that no more calls came in. Quentin nudged the tech to make a disc of all the clips of damage, for the officers who'd responded to each scene to look over. There'd be more reports, more data to sift through, tomorrow.

There was no such thing as a short double shift. Quentin finished his paperwork - just enough notes so he'd remember what he'd been doing when he came back to it tomorrow - and clocked out.

As he drove home, he mulled over what he'd seen. The Hood profiled as precise; he didn't injure anyone he didn't have to, he didn't damage anything he didn't need to. He didn't waste time on small fry but aimed as close to the heart of his target as possible. There was nothing, therefore, in this new vigilante's MO that would please him. Plus of course, she'd shot at Oliver Queen's mother. But her cause, if you had the corkscrew thinking of a vigilante yourself, looked just. She was killing mobsters, after all. Defending innocent shopkeepers was a side bonus, but still counted in the good column even if unintended.

The Hood would either see her as a rival to be taken down, like that curare-using assassin a month or two ago, or...possibly...as an apprentice to be trained. There was no way to tell which motive would be stronger without more information.

If it meant stopping a mob war before it started, Quentin Lance admitted to himself that possibly putting some information in the hands of the devil he was fairly sure he knew was better than taking the chance that the only thing the Hood would see wrong with this new vigilante was shoddy aim.

As he pulled into his driveway and shifted into park, he tiredly rested his forehead on the steering wheel. 

He genuinely, truly believed that there was no place in a truly just society for vigilantism. Rule of law had to apply to _everyone_ , equally and fairly, or it was just tyranny under a different name. He _knew_ Oliver Queen was the goddamned Hood. Therefore, providing any information to him was violating the law, supporting and aiding a vigilante, even if he couldn't _prove_ it and nobody else believed it was true.

He was also very, very afraid that if this fire weren't stamped out soon there would be a mob war on the streets of Starling City, and as bad as he felt about bending the spirit of the law right now, he knew he'd feel a lot worse if the bodies started dropping and he'd done nothing.

He really hated nights like this. But the motto was 'serve and protect'. If he couldn't base his decision on serving the law, then it would have to be weighed under the 'protect the people' clause.

Quentin Lance dragged himself out of his car and up to his front door. It was no wonder so many cops were alcoholics - but he knew where he'd be going in the morning.

~*~

Quentin faced the broad double doors of the Castle Queen and practiced his poker face. He wasn't the world's greatest liar and now would not be a good time to show a tiger a bared throat.

Oliver actually looked surprised to see him - and then his face flipped into that 'innocent and stupid' expression Quentin had seen more than enough of when trying to arrest him for vigilantism. "Detective," he said pleasantly. "Is everything okay?"

Innocent and stupid, except for the eyes. Which didn't blink, and didn't look away, and were waiting for that one wrong move.

Quentin nodded to that, focusing hard on his own poker face, and stepped inside. "Your buddy with the arrows, was at Russo's last night," he said as an opener. He'd have rather not mention the Hood at all, but as the whole reason he was here was the Hood, he chose to get it out of the way.

"And I was there earlier, with a date," said Oliver, still in that innocent, stupid tone. And his eyes were not blinking, not looking away in the slightest. Predator eyes. "So...what?" he smiled just slightly; the face said 'innocent, stupid bemusement'. The eyes said 'fangs'. "You think I'm the Hood guy again?"

_I never stopped._ But what Quentin said was, "Nooo." He really wasn't a good liar, but he wasn't going to look away either. He'd faced down enough killers to know better than that. He did, however, get to the point. "Your date. Helena Bertinelli? If I were you, I'd stay away from her. Her family's bad news on a _good_ day." Which today was definitely not.

Something flickered, just briefly, behind those tiger eyes. Quentin couldn't tell if it was surprise, or suspicion, or something else. "Why the sudden concern for my well-being?" asked Oliver levelly, letting the 'innocent and stupid' face lapse into hardness for a moment.

This was the tricky part; not just lying but doing what he could to - hopefully - point this tiger in a useful direction. Quentin licked his lips, began carefully. "A few weeks ago, I made a mistake. Almost got you killed."

Oliver nodded slowly, and - finally - blinked. "And you felt like you owed me one?" he asked, carefully, but there was a note of puzzlement there too.

He'd done it. It worked. Now to get the hell out. "If I did," Quentin said slowly, "as far as I'm concerned, this clears the books." He walked out, down the drive to his car, and didn't exhale until he'd heard the doors of Castle Queen close behind him.

There was no telling what his nudge would do. How much humanity remained in Oliver Queen was the question - and it was, frankly, not a question Quentin Lance had anything like enough evidence to answer with any degree of certainty.

But when he saw how this played out, he rather thought he might have an answer.

~*~

Quentin caught up on his sleep in the afternoon, and checked in for a graveyard shift at the precinct. The day, apparently, had been quiet; no new corpses on the street. Hilton, who hadn't spent the morning visiting the Castle Queen, had taken swing shift, and wasn't there when Quentin clocked in.

Hilton, who'd taken swing shift, came in with a report to change that. "Salvati and two enforcers. CSU didn't find any usable prince except for the three victims," he said, and passed Quentin the file. "One of them had a GSW to the chest."

Quentin looked it over glumly. So much for nudging tigers. "So, who broke the necks of Salvati and his buddy?"

Hilton paused, studying his partner's ...reserved demeanor. "Hey, look," he said slowly. "It's been a while since the Hood broke anyone's neck," he offered. "And I didn't see any arrows lying around."

Okay. Yes. True. _Maybe_ he hadn't set things off by talking to Queen. But apparently he hadn't helped, either. Quentin looked over at his partner. "You better pray that Frank Bertinelli blames the Hood for this. Cos if he thinks it's the Triad, Starling City is ground zero for world war three."

The real problem, Quentin mused glumly, was that there really wasn't any way to know it _wasn't_ the Triad. "Let's check with surveillance and the gang units. If it's the Triad maybe there's someone that knows who was there."

It was going to be another double shift.


	7. Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the Huntress an ally, apprentice, or enemy? How would you tell from the evidence alone? Quentin Lance really doesn't have the best week, this week.

Quentin finished his shift, more than a little to his own surprise, without any more bodies dropping. A cop didn't have to think very hard to be grateful for small blessings like that. It meant catching up on his report writing, but paperwork was a small price to pay. As he did so, he set aside pages to copy for his _other_ report - his required process of keeping Ms. Spencer in the loop. 

The problem there was, he wasn't entirely sure what 'the loop' in this case _was_. This new vigilante might or might not be an accomplice to the Hood, might or might not be his enemy. The best he could say was that at least it didn't look like the vigilantes themselves were aiming to join in this potential, as-yet-unresolved private war. That, he was pretty sure, was going to change in the near future - but he could make no guesses as to what direction that involvement would take.

So, for now, he wasn't calling the highly aggravating lawyer holding his leash. He preferred his conversations with her to involve minimal use of 'no idea' or 'I don't know'. He was just going to set the pieces he had on this new vigilante to one side, and assemble a less embarrassing report later.

Hilton had already gone home, having taken the swing shift, so there was no one to comment on Quentin pulling out the Hood's file to look over. The _full_ file, that included his personal notes, the ones the Commissioner wasn't interested in reading or hearing about.

Assume Oliver Queen, that was first. Oliver Queen and not anyone else that might don the role, because there wasn't yet much information to differentiate one Hood from another beyond the skill with (and use of) a bow. And it was Oliver Queen who'd been in the restaurant with Helena Bertinelli, just minutes before the Hood and the New Vigilante had appeared to save said restaurant from Bertinelli's enforcers.

A killer. But not .... Quentin's fingers tapped on the desk, thinking of the word. Not...sadistic? Ruthless, certainly, but the actual _murders_ involving arrows had gone down. The upper-class predators that the Hood seemed to prefer hunting had apparently clued in that they weren't necessarily more valuable to the Hood alive. Arrests had gone up, and the Hood was ...getting _better_ , at least, about not offering completely useless-in-court varieties of evidence. It certainly helped that his chosen prey seemed to find life far safer in jail than in the Hood's bowsights.

It rankled, rankled deeply at Quentin Lance's egalitarian soul that the only law these people respected was brute force. There was supposed to be a better way. The police were supposed to _be_ that better way. Granting that every one of the men had been found to be guilty of fairly large crimes...they were still supposed to be discovered and arrested through _legal means_. But somehow they'd figured out how to get around all the watchdogs and auditing services and everything else that was supposed to provide that legal process, so that what brought the crimes to light wasn't investigation and due process, but a psychotic twerp in green with a bow and arrow set.

_Deep breaths_. This was why he needed Hilton around. It kept him from getting lost in his own head.

So. Oliver Queen.

Ruthless. Goal oriented, albeit with really unusual goals. Intelligent enough to keep from being officially identified and arrested. Manipulative to a dangerous degree, able to twist friends and enemies alike to any goal he wanted. Rich, with a lot of free time on his hands, more than willing to spend what it took to achieve his chosen ends. But not afraid to get his hands dirty, either; his arrows at least - and possibly other aspects of his equipment - were handcrafted. Money was treated a tool, but not a swiss army knife.

He was startled out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. He picked it up. "Lance."

" _This is Sergeant Olson, gang taskforce. We got your message._ "

"Yeah?" asked Quentin, snagging a piece of scrap and a pen. "Any word on the hit on Salvati?"

" _Nothing you're gonna like,_ " said the sergeant. " _Nobody's claiming it. But everyone knows. We've got all our men out patrolling, but for tonight at least everyone's apparently busy holding their breath. They know the Bertinellis have to crack down hard on whoever did this, or expose their bellies as being under-defended. It's watch and wait._ "

"So...it's not the Triads," Quentin mused. "They'd follow up a hit like this by going for the throat."

" _That's our thought too,_ " said the sergeant. " _But the issue's not who's behind it - it's who Bertinelli blames. And what kind of firepower he's got left, after this, to retaliate with. That's what they're waiting to see._ "

"Got it," said Quentin, relieved that at least this part of the world was conforming to his theories. "And nobody knows that yet - right. Thanks."

He hung up, and looked at the windows. Even this late in the year the sun was coming up, which meant it was time to clock out or try for a double. Based on Sergeant Olson's information, he opted to clock out.

~*~

The next night he clocked in only a minute ahead of Hilton, and got a cheerfully relieved, "No blood on the streets yet," as a greeting.

"You're gonna jinx it," was Quentin's reply, as the two walked to their desks. No new files awaited their attention, meaning - for the moment - they could catch up on paperwork.

"Slowest gang war ever," Hilton noted, pulling his inbox toward himself with a frown. "Think they're scared of the Hood? Blaming him, like you said?"

"It's probably not him," Quentin replied. "The media's picked up the newcomer - they'll be looking for her."

" _Her_?" Hilton replied. "So you think the press is right and the new one's a girl?"

Quentin shoved over his copy of the witness statements from the restaurant. "Female. They were fairly sure. So, girl or skinny boy in lumpy clothes, but more likely female."

Hilton obligingly looked over the reports. "Short skinny guy or a woman...okay." He tossed the file back. "So if this new player's the target, then no war means..."

"No ID," Quentin nodded. "She's dead as soon as Bertinelli knows where to look, and the Triad'd probably cheerfully offer her up to deflect attention. So would any other group in town. But she's only targeted Bertinelli so far, so everyone but him is watching and waiting, and he doesn't know who to hit."

Hilton pursed his lips. "Do we know who she is?"

Gnah. Quentin didn't want to answer that one; his own theory took as a foundation that Oliver Queen was the Hood. If that, then everything else followed. But the 'if that' wasn't welcome right now. So he said, instead, "Clearly a grudge against Bertinelli's mob. Willing to waste a lot of bullets going after him. Can go through the crime reports, looking for women that lost friends or family? She'd be outspoken about it, if her current actions are anything to go by. Would blame the Bertinelli family directly."

Hilton nodded. "All right, I'll buy that, and it's a lead we can work with." He went through his own copy of the statements. "...Guessing from this that she's in her early twenties. So we're looking for incidents up to about ten years back, I'd think. If she were orphaned I doubt she'd be in all leather by now."

"Unless she's got a record herself," Quentin offered. Alternative theories were never a bad thing; he'd been wrong before, after all, and if he wasn't wrong it would still help to not wind up with another personal vendetta accusation. He pulled his keyboard toward him. Ten years would be within the purview of the database, at least.

They worked quietly for a few hours, trawling the database for possible candidates for the new vigilante, until Quentin's phone rang. Focused on his search, he answered it without looking away. "Lance."

" _We've got another one for you_ ," said the semi-familiar voice on the other end; it took Quentin a moment to attach "Sergeant Olson" to it.

"Another what?" asked Quentin, not yet finished changing mental gears.

" _Another arrow for your collection_ ," Olson replied. " _We got a tip from one of the chop shops. Triad handed over a car for repair with a green arrow stuck in the hood. And bullet holes._ "

That got Quentin's full attention; he grabbed his notepad. "How do you know it's a Triad car?" he asked. "Any blood?"

" _It's a Triad car because the tipster said it was a Triad that handed it to him. With an order to have it good as new by tomorrow._ " There was a pause, with a sound of mouthpiece-covering, then, " _Officers report no blood in the car. Lotta holes, no blood. Thought you'd wanna know - you want a copy of the full report?_ "

"Hell yeah," Quentin replied. "And thanks. I owe you."

" _You owe half the precinct by now,_ " was Olson's amused reply, as the line went dead.

He glanced toward his partner to find Hilton staring at him with the patient look of a man reminding himself that shaking people nets garbled answers. "Well?"

"The Hood's getting involved," said Quentin. "Olson just told me they pulled a green arrow out of the hood of a Triad car. But get this - no blood."

"The Hood's shooting at the Triad?" asked Hilton, disbelieving. "That's _all_ we need. What's he trying to do, even the bodycount?"

"Olson said there were a lot of bullets in the car too," said Quentin. "The Hood doesn't use guns that we know of."

"So...crap, he's working with the new vigilante then?" winced Hilton. "Tell me no. Just say no."

"Maybe not," Quentin offered. "The Hood isn't known for missing. No blood means no wounds, no arrows that _hit_. No bullets either."

Hilton nodded, conceding the point. Thinking it over, he theorized, "Warning them off?"

Quentin blinked. That was an interesting idea. "...The new vigilante wants to destroy Bertinelli. Shoot the Triad, they respond...the Hood has a problem with the cross fire?"

"He doesn't miss," Hilton agreed. "Implies a dislike for injured bystanders, which fits his MO at other locales. This new one's less careful."

It also implied the Hood was _with_ the new vigilante. Which left open the idea that the Hood was taking on an apprentice. Quentin didn't like that idea at all, not in any way. Warning the Triad off didn't mean the Hood was against the Triad taking out Bertinelli. It might just mean the Hood was warning the Triad to remember to aim, which might _also_ be what he was doing with the new vigilante.

He'd rather any theory other than 'taking an apprentice'. The last thing Starling City needed was a _cadre_ of vigilantes.

"We'll have a copy of the report soon," said Quentin guardedly, and returned his attention to the database. Maybe he was looking at it the wrong way. He was already pretty sure Helena Bertinelli was the new vigilante. Maybe what he needed to do was work _backward_ from that, see if there any connections in Helena's life that she was getting back at daddy _for_.

A quick search turned up nothing. That wasn't surprising; the last thing the mob wanted was close police attention, especially that near the top. Quentin rubbed at his upper lip, thinking. Organized crime was one of the FBI's pet projects. He did _not_ want the FBI swanning in here asking questions about why they hadn't caught this Hood guy yet, though. Humiliating the precinct on that level was a sure ticket back to beat cop. But they might well have answers, and he needed answers.

On the other hand, maybe that link to the DA's office could be good for something. He _did_ have enough for a conversation with Kate Spencer, after all.

~*~

Once home again, he waited until office hours - which for him meant staying up late - and called the DA's office.

_"District Attorney's office. Kate Spencer here."_

Deep breath. "It's Detective Lance," he said. "There's a problem."

_"There's definitely a problem if you're calling before our usual meeting,"_ Spencer agreed, and her tone suggested she wasn neither impressed nor amused. _"So tell me what it is this time."_

"There's a new vigilante," said Quentin slowly. "I'm pretty sure I know the vigilante's identity, but proving it's another matter."

_"It always is,"_ replied Spencer, sounding tired now. _"Who do you think this new vigilante is, and why?"_

Put up or shut up. "I know Oliver Queen's got to be either the Hood, or the ringleader for the group of people wearing the Hood costume. He was captured on film at a restaurant with Helena Bertinelli. Not half an hour later, both the Hood and the new vigilante are on film fighting Bertinelli enforcers. It makes sense. The new vigilante's got a lot of anger but no skill. All the targets are Bertinelli mob. I think the girl's getting back at her dad, and ready to set the whole city off to do it. But I can't prove it. The Bertinellis are organized crime, the casefiles would be FBI. I'd need access to their work, anything they've got on Helena to see if there's something in there that'd set her off."

There was a long pause on the other end. Quentin started wondering if she'd switched to another line, or taken a bathroom break. Finally, _"How sure are you?"_

"Ms. Spencer, you better believe the last thing I'd like to do is run to you with wild guesses," said Quentin with heartfelt - if bitter - honesty. "I've got another problem. It's looking like the Hood may be testing this new vigilante out as a potential apprentice. If I'm right, and it _is_ Helena, it's gonna blow up badly. These rich kids, they do _not_ play well with others."

Another long pause. And then, slowly, _"If you're wrong about this, you're going to owe me more than your job is worth. Favors from the FBI are not cheap. And if you're right, what will you do with it?"_

"Build a case," said Quentin. "If I can prove an underlying cause, a reason why Helena would turn on her own family, that's cause to check out her vehicles, her wardrobe, any weapons registered to her. I can get a warrant and put it together." He stopped, realizing to whom he was saying this, and whose office. "Right?"

_"Probably. All right, detective. I'll see if I can call in a favor and find you something on Helena Bertinelli. But don't look for it soon. Speed of government. I'll send you an envelope when I get an answer. Meantime, continue your case building against both of them. With any luck she'll make the Hood careless enough to leave enough evidence to be caught."_

Well. That was an...upside...possibly. Leaving enough evidence to be caught would involve blood though, which tended to involve casualties, and there was just something Not Right about regarding that as up. But he didn't think it was a good idea to say that, so he just said "Thanks," and hung up.

~*~

The next night started with an anonymous tip. The dispatcher informed the captain of it; a tip that claimed a high-level drug deal was going down at a particular warehouse in the Glades. Three cars were assigned; Lance and Hilton were in one of them. They drove in silently but with lights flashing, only turning on the sirens when they were near the doors, to see who they might flush out.

Somewhat to everyone's surprise, the answer was 'no one'. 

They pulled in, surrounding the doors, and got out of their cars with guns at the ready. From nearby buildings, pedestrians - probably warehouse workers - approached just close enough to get a fair view without much risk of being shot at. Without comment, Quentin and the other five officers moved to surround the doors and approached carefully. Meeting no resistance, they opened the doors ...

...to find several unconscious men and discarded weapons around. A few were groaning; there wouldn't be much time. Several were in cleansuits, wearing face masks. It was a treasure trove of evidence.

"You and you, help me get these guys cuffed," said Hilton, taking out his own pair. 

"You, call the CSU," Quentin added. "Everybody, leave the guns alone until we've gotten this place catalogued."

"Lance, get over here," called Hilton. "You're not gonna believe who we've got."

Quentin obeyed, absently holstering his weapon in the absence of anyone conscious enough to shoot. His partner turned out to be right. "...Anthony Venza?" he asked, nudging the semi-conscious man with a foot, to see his face better. "Sonofabitch. it is. How'd _he_ get caught in this tuna net?"

Hilton, having cuffed the man, had turned his attention to the dust on the ground. "Betting the CSU guys tell us that's not baby powder."

"All clear," shouted the last of their companions, from a far corner. "But I think we've got a _lot_ of drugs in here. There's powder spilling out from - hey! Lance! Get a load of this!"

Hilton and Quentin shared a Look. There was something bigger than catching Venza in a warehouse full of drugs? Christmas had chosen an odd time to visit, clearly.

"Go on," Hilton nodded. "I've got our guest of honor here. Wouldn't want anything to happen to him."

Quentin nodded, and started making his way - carefully, in case someone was lying in wait, warehouses were full of crazy shelving - to where he'd heard the other officer's voice.

He knew immediately what the other officer had meant. Buried up to the fletching in a sack spilling white powder was...

.....not an arrow, and not green. Quentin pulled on his latex gloves, fished out a camera to take a picture of the thing _in situ_ , and then gently eased it out of the package it was buried in.

Not an arrow. A crossbow bolt. And not green, but purple.

"Keep an eye out for green arrows!" Quentin called. No more bullets, but now a cross between the bow and the gun. A new signature, for what looked a hell of a lot like a new apprentice. So much for Christmas coming early. he nodded to the officer who'd found the arrow. "Best get started taking statements. They were here, let's see if they were seen."

By the time the CSU team had arrived - letting the officers see about leading their captives to lockup - the media had arrived, which allowed a new variation on the standard perp walk. Quentin wasn't really thinking about it, though. His mind was on that purple crossbow bolt, and trying to figure out who would pull harder on whom - the new girl on the Hood, or the Hood on the new girl.

~*~

When the dust had settled, the media was having a field day with such a high-profile drug bust. Much to Quentin's personal relief, they were also having a field day with the witness reports of "the Hood and a female accomplice".

That was important. This time, Frank Bertinelli _knew_ it wasn't the Triads. It was the Hood and the new vigilante. It didn't hurt that the Triads also knew it. Now, everyone would be going after those two and not each other.

Witness statements aside, there _had_ been green arrows recovered. Some with blood on them; injury reports suggested the Hood had been immobilizing targets, with a preference for pinning gun-hands. Quentin turned the little purple crossbow bolt in his hands. Gun or crossbow, the new vigilante was a terrible shot. But purple crossbow bolts were at least a signature so blatant that you didn't need a ballistics report to make a match.

He worked with Hilton through his shift, with half an eye toward the report he was going to have to make to Ms. Spencer later. That crossbow bolt seemed to make clear there was an apprenticeship underway. Whatever favor she was calling in, it might be too late to make use of it.

The night was quiet, until about midnight. So when Lance's phone rang, he picked it up with only half his attention - the rest on sorting through the evidence of the Venza bust. "Lance."

_"We got trouble."_

It took Quentin a few moments to place Sergeant Olson's voice. But the dread was both unmistakable and galvanizing. "Tell me," he said, reaching for a pen. 

His tone was enough to alert Hilton, who paused his own work to listen, gesturing toward the speaker button.

Quentin got the hint, putting the sergeant on speaker just in time for them both to hear, "Someone just hit the Triad. Hard. We responded to a shots-fired and, Detective, _everybody's dead in here_. It looks like most of the Triad leadership just got perforated playin' poker. Including Zhishan."

Both Quentin and Hilton froze at the news. "...China White?" Quentin croaked. If she were dead too, _maybe_ this would end here. "What killed them?"

"No sign of China White," Olson replied grimly, understanding just as well as Quentin and Hilton what that meant. "Bullets. Close range. Several shots each."

_So much for apprenticeships._ But there would be time - maybe - later, to find out what had happened there. Right now, there was only one possible response the Triads could make. "All car bulletin. Tell everyone to get to the Bertinelli mansion. We'll meet you there. Meantime get the CSU to process the one you're at."

He hung up, and Hilton observed, "She'll blame Bertinelli. That bitch is _psycho_."

Quentin nodded, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket. "We'll tell dispatch on the way. If we've got any chance of a witness able to say a word it's gonna have to be now."

~*~

The only thing Quentin could remember about that drive later was explaining to dispatch that yes, _every_ car that could be spared and _every_ ambulance that could be called in had better get to the Bertinelli mansion, while Hilton did the driving with full sirens going - not something either of them did often after midnight.

What they found on _arrival_ was seared into his memory, in a way he knew was going to resurface in nightmares for months to come. Sentries, groundskeepers, servants, family - the Triad had already come and, apparently, gone. Throats cut. Bullet holes in walls and corpses, stab wounds...the Triad had struck with precision.

One or two corpses had arrows in them. Quentin took photos of those for his private collection of evidence, but didn't stay for more. Someone had to be alive. They'd responded as quickly as humanly possible, _someone_ had to be alive.

_"Medics to southwest grounds. We've got one,"_ crackled over his handheld, and Quentin didn't hesitate. Changing course to get out of the house of corpses, he raised the handheld to his face.

"Is there any ID?"

There was a pause, then, uncertain, _"I think it's Frank Bertinelli."_

Quentin broke into a run. Kill everyone, _everyone_ in the whole place but leave the kingpin breathing? Bertinelli had to be the best sprinter alive, or something else was going on.

He arrived at the location just as the medics were loading the unconscious mob boss into an ambulance. He hadn't been the only officer to respond; two or three were now searching the ground, and one was working on opening a solid-side briefcase.

"He'll live," said one of the medics, in a tone that suggested he'd been repeating it to everyone who showed up. "He's lost a lot of blood but we got here in time."

That was all he had time to say though; with Bertinelli properly loaded, the ambulance crew got into their vehicle to take him to the hospital. 

"...There's a laptop in here," said the officer who'd been working on the briefcase. "Looks a little on the old side, but probably functioning."

"Let's get it to the lab, see what he was trying to make off with," said Quentin. Looking around, his eyes caught the familiar sight of fletching, half-buried in the grass. He walked over to it, studying the position. Not fired _at_ the ground. Just lying there. Used to hit something else? "That case, is it damaged?"

"No more than you'd expect," answered the officer who'd been fiddling with it. "Why?"

"Hn." Continued prowling, with a flashlight, turned up a small crossbow. In purple. He took another picture, asking, "Anyone can tell me where Bertinelli was found?"

"Right where you're standing," answered another officer. "Why?"

Quentin sighed, fished out a pencil from a pocket, used it to lift the crossbow up off the ground. " _Nobody_ saw this?" he asked. "Fan out. See if you can find what he shot at."

~*~

"...so that's where we stand," Quentin finished tiredly. "The only prints on the crossbow were Frank's. No sign of who he hit with it, though we found blood at the scene. We've got Frank thanks to the laptop, but he's not talking about whatever happened."

 _"I see,"_ said Kate Spencer, on the other end of the line. _"Your fishing worked out, by the way. The laptop may even count as corroboration. Apparently Helena's fiancee was executed after she attempted to cooperate with the FBI investigation. She'd promised an agent that laptop, but it was never delivered. Do we have anything useful on the Hood?"_

"There's a few more bodies with his arrows stuck in them," said Quentin tiredly, rubbing his forehead. "I've got a few reports of Oliver Queen and Helena Bertinelli being involved in a minor scene at a new restaurant earlier in the evening but no physical evidence puts either of them at the mansion when the murders took place. We do have ballistics on the guns used to take out Triad leadership. If the guns were registered to Helena, we'll probably find them at the mansion. We're still processing the place."

_"It may be difficult to prove the Hood was there as part of one of the combatant factions,"_ Spencer replied thoughtfully. _"It was apparently a warzone and he may be able to claim self defense. It does however fit in the overall pattern of his actions. Document it thoroughly, detective. We may still get him."_

"Yeah," said Quentin tiredly. "We'll get him. I'll catch you up next week, ma'am."

As he hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. Part of him suspected he owed the Hood a serious punch in the face - that all those bodies, all that blood, had been because a pair of rich kids had had a lover's quarrel. And not enough evidence to arrest either one for it.

At least the war was over.


	8. Year's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new archer appears on the scene, just in time for terribly awkward holiday gatherings. It's not a great time for Quentin Lance, for a lot of reasons.

The primary advantage, if such it could be called, to being divorced was that there was no one around to object to Quentin Lance working the night shift as a regular thing.

Which was good, because the Hood was _busy_. And, weirdly, in a useful and non-murderous capacity. Starling City had never had what one might call an _abundance_ of remorseful criminals willing to walk up to the desk clerk and confess their crimes. 

It had one now. It had, in fact, been happening often enough and regularly enough for the precinct to have worked out a protocol for dealing with the sudden appearance of nerve-wracked executives promising to confess to all kinds of things if they could just please be put into protective custody. At once. No, no bail necessary, oh and you'll need this pile of evidence, I'm really guilty, _honest_. And, er, you haven't heard of that Hood guy hanging around the precinct HQ, have you?

Some of the officers were of the mind that the Hood was their personal Santa, delivering Christmas early to all the good boys and girls in uniform. Quentin was much more of mixed mind about it all. It _was_ good to get criminals off the streets. (Or out of the corner offices.) And they _were_ confessing to crimes they _had_ committed. All the leads offered in confessions were followed up on, the evidence seemed legitimate, and so far defense counsels had (admittedly with some bafflement given the income level of their clients) followed their clients' wishes and entered guilty pleas with a minimum of plea-bargaining.

Detective Lance mostly just wished there'd been an open file of _any_ of the guilty men before they'd walked through the HQ doors. Any of them. Just one would have been nice.

The Hood knew these men were guilty. The Hood tracked them down and scared them so badly that federal prison was preferable to so much as _irritating_ him. If any of the confessors had thought to fight, there wouldn't be a case. _That_ bothered Detective Lance hugely. The law _should_ have found these men. Or at least had some idea that this level of criminal activity was going on. 

Why hadn't it?

Thus it was with curiosity more than anything else that he offered to answer the call - homicide, arrows to the chest.

As he and Hilton went to their car, Hilton noted, "They probably called you first, you know. The minute arrows are involved. You've always asked for copies anyway, so just telling you to go check it out saves time and paper."

"He hasn't been racking up the bodies lately though," said Quentin gruffly, starting the car to get underway. "Wonder who crossed him."

Hilton was listening distractedly; most of his attention was on the police band. "...Better straighten your tie, Quentin. The Hood's caught the Commissioner's attention."

_The what?_

Crap.

Quentin knew Commissioner Nudocerdo more by reputation than anything else. Political toady. His interest in this arrow-murder meant someone _else_ was shining a spotlight on _him_ , probably along the lines of 'why isn't this Hood guy in a cell yet'. Which would be a legitimate question if 'because you didn't let me' weren't the actual answer.

"Thanks," he grumbled, and practiced being Calm And Reasonable, because he really couldn't stand political toadies and it didn't help that this one signed his paychecks.

Once they reached the scene, they had time to take a good look around and start photographing evidence. Time enough to realize, unfortunately, that the vigilante situation had gotten worse in a _new_ direction.

Oh, Adam Hunt was dead all right. But the arrows were black, not green, and not custom-made. And Adam was a target who had, by the Hood's bizarre standards, paid his dues. Quentin was mulling over what a copy cat stood to gain by killing people the Hood had _let go_ when Nudocerdo's car pulled up.

God he hated toadies. But he straightened his tie anyway as the Commissioner strode up, and into the crime scene, saying, "So, what do we know?"

Hilton gave Quentin a pointed look. Calm and reasonable. Right. He gestured to the Commissioner to follow him to the body. "Well, the daughter came over, used her key, found dad." He indicated said without managing in any way to imply that the Commissioner might otherwise _miss_ a dead body with arrows stuck in it. "Arrow straight through the chest."

It did _not_ help that Commissioner Nudocerdo's expression suggested this was the first dead body he'd seen up close in a while. "The hood guy," he breathed, in a tone somewhere between fear and awe.

"That's what I thought at first," said Quentin, thinking _calm and reasonable, calm and reasonable_. Telling your boss you think he's wrong is never an easy move. "But these black arrows aren't consistent with his MO, and neither is the fact that the Hood took Hunt for forty million dollars a few months ago. Doesn't make sense to kill him now. Something doesn't add up. We're dealing with a copycat." 

Oh God. The Commissioner was looking at him blankly. You did _not_ snark at the boss. "Gang war, now vigilante war?" asked Nudocerdo.

Quentin blinked. "...I hope not," was all he could think to say to that. "Could just be someone wanted Hunt dead and wanted the blame pinned on someone else. We'll have the lab look at the arrows."

It wasn't the Hood, so the Commissioner soon meandered out again, leaving Quentin and the rest of the investigative team to look over the actual crime.

No sign of a struggle. The door's lock had been picked, not forced, leaving no outward sign of anything wrong to the casual observer. Quentin wasn't surprised that Hunt's daughter hadn't seen any warning signs before the dead body. This was definitely not the Hood. The Hood _wanted_ people to know he'd been there. _Wanted_ people to fear his involvement. This new guy...too efficient. The new guy wanted Hunt dead, and had really pretty much left everything else alone.

They finished the initial processing with Quentin finding no immediate answers to his questions. Adam Hunt, to all appearances, had been murdered a broken man. There was nothing in the apartment to indicate any reason for him to be murdered. Quentin clocked out and headed home, thinking it all over.

~*~

Sleep did not, sadly, create in Quentin any sense of Answer. It wasn't the Hood, he was sure of that much, but that eliminated all of one suspect. The arrows looked high-end, not handmade, but what did that say, really?

 _Think, damn you. The answers are there._

He didn't, therefore, notice the delivery guy until his name spoken in a stranger's voice intruded on his pondering. "Quentin Lance?"

Quentin looked up - then got up. He didn't have to, actually, it was just a delivery guy, but he was half functioning on autopilot. "Yeah," he said, not really thinking about it as the envelope was passed over.

Then his attention was on the envelope, because that did _not_ feel like a report or inter-office memo. The delivery man seemed used to this, though, and made sure to redirect Quentin's attention to the important thing of the moment; his clipboard. "Sign here, please."

Quentin did so, passing it back with a murmured 'thanks' of habitual courtesy, but barely heard the deliveryman's answering thanks; his attention was already on the envelope. No return address. Not a memo. Opening it, he took out a phone.

_That_ wasn't a great sign. Someone wanted to contact him, but not use the office phone? Or his own cell? He sat down, studying it; it had to be different somehow.

And then it rang, in his hand. He stared at it, letting it ring. A blocked number, calling a phone he hadn't owned twenty seconds ago. The day was definitely starting out Interesting, and he wasn't at all sure he wanted Interesting before coffee.

Oh well. It might not be Opportunity, but _somebody_ was knocking. He set the phone to his ear and pressed the 'answer' button. "Lance."

The voice on the other end was altered - obviously altered. _"I didn't kill Adam Hunt."_

"You," he he said. The Hood. It had to be. Nice new cellphone, delivery service, crime involving arrows, Oliver Queen was not exactly as smart as he thought he was. Usually. He looked around. The Hood'd called the moment the phone was in his hand, he _had_ to be near enough to watch Quentin's desk to do a stunt like that.

_"You call me the Hood,"_ confirmed the disguised voice. _"It's not a great nickname. You told Commissioner Nudocerdo that you might be dealing with a copycat. Another archer. Which makes_ me _your best bet to take him down. But I need your help. I need one of the arrows from his murder."_

Great. Not just watching him at his desk, but watching him on the job, too? This was _not_ a great sign, not at all. But Quentin would be damned if he'd play the panicked stalker-ee. The irritation showed in his voice, which probably wasn't wise, but damnit he hated being yanked around. "Yeah, we're pretty good at pulling down leads off evidence, thanks."

_"Not like I am,"_ the Hood replied. _"I can do things the police can't. Go places they won't."_

_Because you're a vigilante who doesn't give a damn about due process or rights of the accused, you son of a bitch,_ Quentin bit his tongue on replying, instead responding with a firm, "Like I said. I don't even know who -"

_"This archer doesn't stop with Adam Hunt, we _both_ have a problem,"_ snapped the Hood, apparently losing patience at the lack of cooperation. _"Think about it. Then call me. The number's programmed in."_

Lance hung up. You didn't give in to criminal demands. That was just basic sense, but he was also angry, and trying to control it.

Oliver Queen clearly thought they were on the same side. Just as clearly, he felt the police were in a _subordinate role_. Inferior, because the police had to do things like, for example, _obey the goddamn law_. Quentin set the phone down with exaggerated care, because what he really wanted to do was throw it. Or step on it. Or something of that sort. 

Making deals with Oliver Queen had, thus far, had a success rate of zero. On the other hand, Oliver Queen had something of a personal identity crisis thing going on now, being the Hood. Had he, Quentin, asked for this? Was this the payback for trying to warn Queen off the Bertinelli mob? That Queen thought they were _friends_?

He put the phone in a drawer. Queen wanted to be courted, called, so the phone would probably stay quiet. And if it didn't, well, the charge on the damn thing wouldn't last forever. 

The whole thing put him in a sour mood - really, if they'd just let him build the case against Queen _openly_ it'd go ever so much better, even if he wasn't committing murder - but in fairness, paperwork never did much for his mood either.

So he was almost hopeful when a homicide call came in, "arrow to the chest". 

Almost. But he grabbed his keys and headed to the scene anyway.

What Nelson Ravage had been doing in a dark alley late at night was now, he found, a question for the ages. Quentin found Ravage's car parked not far away; possibly the man had been meeting someone. Or planning to; as Quentin crouched down to examine the body, he noticed he wasn't carrying a cell phone - and given Ravage was wearing a quite expensive, tailored suit and tie, the _absence_ of a phone was indicative. 

The only sign of violence was the precision shot; one arrow to the chest. Shot in the back, this time, with a black arrow.

Quentin looked around. There were no bystanders, no apparent witnesses. The call had been an anonymous tip. This black-arrow archer might be just as eager to sign his kills as the Hood...if that were the case, it was possible the new archer had called this in himself, just to make sure he got credit for his work.

But _why_? Was it all just a call-out? Some competition between vigilantes? Some disagreement? 

Or was it something else entirely? Maybe this new archer was making sure these men, who weren't going to get caught before the Hood confronted them, never talked? Would that explain the missing phone?

"Hey. Lance." 

Quentin looked over to find that, once again, the Commissioner had taken a personal interest, arriving with another squad car. _This can't be coincidence,_ he thought, with a sinking heart, but walked over to greet the boss as pleasantly as possible. "What a pleasant surprise," he offered, but the smile looked horrible. He'd never been good at faking them.

Nudocerdo noticed, frowning at him. "Just tell me what's happened," he said shortly. "The Hood strike again?"

"Not exactly," said Quentin, walking with the commissioner back to the body. "Commissioner, this is Nelson Ravage. The Hood hit him earlier this week; Ravage wired back the money he embezzled less than five minutes later."

Once again, he had the distinct impression that Nudocerdo did not see dead bodies that often, and wasn't happy about seeing this one. There was, in fact, a distinct sense of _squirm_ about him; something about the whole situation was making the commissioner uncomfortable. 

Nudocerdo eyed the body as if coming to a decision. "All right," he said at last, to someone that probably wasn't Quentin, but when he gestured to the detective to follow, Quentin obeyed - wondering just who, exactly, Nudocerdo was worried about overhearing them. The other officers were investigating the ends of the alley. "You tell the press the Hood did this," he said, and Quentin couldn't keep the surprise from his face. "Hunt's murder is a page ten story," Nudocerdo continued, "at best. But Ravage makes this a serial murder case. We can't let the public get wind of the idea that there are _two_ of these nutjobs running around -"

"You want me to ignore a serial killer -" interrupted Lance, unable to accept what he was hearing. This was the _commissioner_ , and okay political toady, but ignore a serial killer? Because it made you _look bad_? It defied...everything.

"Just catch one or the other of these psychos," snapped Nudocerdo. "I don't care which one." And as he - finally - registered the look of sheer disgusted disbelief that Lance couldn't hide at hearing this, he added, "That is a direct order from your commanding officer," and walked away - presumably, from his perspective at least, ending the discussion.

Something in Quentin Lance snapped. _No_. It was bad enough to have vigilantes running around with bows and arrows who treated the law as something that just didn't apply if you put on a costume. He could not, _would not_ , put up with the law as being treated as inconvenient when it caused bad press by his own side. "Well, you can forget it then," he said flatly. And though he didn't mean it to, the words carried perfectly in the dark.

Commissioner Nudocerdo paused, turned. And Lance knew before the man spoke that whatever Nudocerdo was squirming about, whatever it was he was afraid of, neither Lance nor the law were it. The look he turned on the detective seemed a perfect copy of offended prom queens the nation over. "Fine. It's forgotten. And you're off this case, _Sergeant_. Effective immediately."

Neither man had raised his voice, but it was a quiet night; everyone heard them. Quentin closed his eyes as the other officers stared at him - not to hide, but just to absorb the blow. Demoted. Yeah well that was why you didn't snark at the political toadies, and in certain respects he was a bit surprised it had taken this long. He studied the scene a moment longer, then headed back to his car.

What to do now?

Well, 'drive off' was a given, return to his desk was a given. Put in an order to have the rank on his desk's name plate changed...

Hilton sat down at his own desk, listening in. "So. What was it? You didn't call him names, did you? I'd like to think you didn't get busted for something that small." 

"Wanted me to pretend the hood and his copycat are the same guy," muttered Lance, looking away. 

Hilton just nodded; unlike his partner, he had a rather more realistic view of how the police department ran. He stirred creamer into his coffee, and said, "You told him where he could shove his orders."

"Of course I did," grumbled Lance. "What'd you think I was going to do? They're two different people, two different agendas. That doesn't change just because it's _convenient_ to pretend it's different. And now I'm off the case."

"Telling the commissioner to shove it has that kind of effect," Hilton agreed. "I'll get you copies of the notes. Everyone around here knows you're still the expert on the Hood. We'll just have to do it more quietly now. Try and stay out of the commissioner's hair, meantime? You get busted back to beat cop, you won't have time to read the paperwork."

Hilton finished his coffee and left again, leaving Lance alone at his desk. It was sinking in, albeit slowly, just how hard he'd gotten slapped for his insubordination. A reduction in rank meant a pay cut, benefits cut, pension cut, all covered with a hefty cut in respect around the precinct.

Was it really just because he'd mouthed off?

...Well. Nudocerdo _was_ probably that petty, actually. But assume for a moment that he wasn't. Assume there was more; something to do with the commissioner's edgy and uncomfortable behavior.

_Think, damn you._

Nudocerdo personally attended both of the black arrow crime scenes, despite having had no prior interest in the Hood. And despite clear evidence that the criminal using black arrows was a different person than the criminal using green arrows, he wanted them treated as the same person.

The Hood was interested in high level crime as a rule, not street crime. Executives. 

Politicians.

And political donors.

Exactly the sort of people that would want the kind of mess the Hood was creating cleaned up - not necessarily the Hood himself, though that would be nice, but _the mess_. The witnesses, the confessions. And if the Hood wasn't going to kill them, then set the Hood up to look like he'd killed them, so as to discourage any more executives from going rogue?

It was a hell of a lot of theory to hang one hissyfit on, that could just as easily be explained by Nudocerdo being a petty primadonna with power issues.

_("I can do things the police can't. Go places they won't.")_

On the other hand, Quentin needed to _know_ if a petty hissyfit was all it was. Nudocerdo might be an incompetent political toady, but that didn't necessarily mean he was part of a vast criminal conspiracy.

If he _was_ , it would be an issue. If the Hood started shooting cops, even bad cops or incompetent cops, things would blow up in an ugly way. And removing a corrupt commissioner by legitimate means was almost as big a tangle. 

And maybe it was all in his head, something he'd come up with to make his demotion as unfair as it felt. But - he could test it. As a theory. 

He'd probably never manage to convince that idiot Queen that they were not in fact friends, nor on the same side. But every plan had its price, and this one wanted only a very small fraction of his soul.

He just needed to not lose his nerve. There was just...if cops couldn't uphold the law without breaking the law, what kind of sense whas there in _anything_?

Quentin Lance got to his feet, and headed for the evidence lockers.

~*~

It was easier than he'd thought, but then he did still have his keys. One arrow, from the Hunt case. He slid it into a cardboard tube, tossed the tube out a window near his desk, and walked out the front door. It was a pretty simple matter from there to drive the thing to a location where he could hide the tube in a gutter. From there it could be easily retrieved, but not easily seen.

It was so _easy_ to break the law. Disturbingly so. He had a bad feeling this would go south - perhaps moreso than the Bertinelli business, and that hadn't gone _at all_ well - but the Hood had proven willing to steal evidence before. At least this way (Quentin told himself) the Hood wouldn't be taking _all_ the evidence. Quentin was sure those black arrows would say just as much about their owner as the green arrows did, once the labs were done with them.

He picked up some takeout burgers on the way back as a way to explain his absence to the front desk, and set it down as he took a seat.

Moment of truth. He could always go back and get that arrow. But not after he made the call. 

Screw deep breaths, he decided, he needed to get this extremely stupid plan _over with_. He took the phone and headed out into the hall, hitting the dial button.

It didn't surprise him that the Hood answered almost immediately. _"Don't bother trying to trace this back to me, you'll never get through the encryption."_

Glad to know you've had time to think too, asshole, Quentin firmly did not say. Instead he got to the point: "There's a heating vent. On the corner of O'Neil and Adams. You'll find what you're after there." 

_"It'd be a mistake to set a trap for me, detective,"_ warned the Hood, and Quentin tried not to snarl, because that would actually have been a good idea, if he'd in any way thought to do that. Under Nudocerdo's nose, maybe. The missed opportunity stung almost as much as the treason he was committing against his beliefs. 

It showed in his voice, the desperate cornered snarl. "I'm trading away just about everything I believe in here, because it's the only way I've got to get this bastard. Now, you've got till Christmas. And then, copycat or not, I'm coming after _you_ ," he warned, and hung up. 

At the very least, at the rock bottom worst, he knew he _could_ use the phone to trap the Hood. It was, at the moment, a lower priority than catching the black arrow guy or finding out Nudocerdo's allegiances, but he wouldn't forget.

It was several minutes before he realized the Hood had called him 'detective' - not 'sergeant'. An odd little tidbit for the Hood not to be aware of. But in the wake of his own decision to play traitor to his deepest beliefs, it was hard to think about it properly.

~*~

Treason made for a massive case of insomnia, and a strong desire to be anywhere but in his own home, with mirrors staring at him accusingly. The more he thought about it, the less intelligent and more impulsive his decision seemed. He should've made the Hood break into HQ to take that arrow. _That_ would've been useful evidence. He should've used the phone to set a trap for the Hood, finally proving what he'd been saying all along and making Queen _pay_ for his crimes. (And, not incidentally, proving the guy using black arrows was someone else.)

It was a relief, in a way, to have his calendar remind him that This Was The Holidays and that he'd agreed to have dinner with his daughter. At, and this was also a relief, _her_ apartment. Anything would be an improvement over being trapped alone with his thoughts all day.

Laurel, of course, was not an idiot. The moment she opened the door, her expression shifted to a sympathetic one that Quentin only ever saw when he _really_ looked like hell warmed over to her. She gave him a hug as he came in, closing the door behind him.

There'd been enough days, enough nights, where both of them had looked like hell in the past few years that neither of them talked about it anymore. What was to be done was, by now, established habit. And that was good, because both of them often ran into cases where what was ruining their day was bound up in confidentiality agreements concerning ongoing cases. It helped just to have someone there, sometimes.

Laurel had actually cooked a dinner, which wasn't really much of a habit for either of them given the hours they kept. Quentin appreciated both the thought and the distraction, and the two of them discussed little things like the steaming of rice and whether it was better to bake chicken with its skin on or off, and for a little while it was just Family and Home and even, possibly, within a stone's-throw of being All Right.

And then, dinner was over. The timer on the television clicked on, as Laurel took the dishes to the kitchen.

Reality had a way of intruding like that. Commissioner Nudocerdo was saying everything he'd wanted Quentin to back him on - that the Hood was committing these murders, no mention of a copycat. Quentin couldn't help himself; he got up, took his mug of coffee with him, walked over to the television.

Reminded himself firmly that the only result of throwing the mug at the television would be to upset his daughter. The man was lying. _Lying_ , for the worst reasons - covering his own ass. Lying to _everyone_. And worse, getting away with it.

He didn't hear Laurel returning to the living room, so focused he was on the newscast, on this utterly false 'official line'. 

"It isn't him, is it," she asked quietly. "The man in the hood. He didn't kill those people."

Quentin was torn between bitterness and pride in his daughter's perception. How could Nudocerdo get away with saying something so easily demonstrated untrue? "Nnh. You're the one that said he was a monster," he pointed out, wondering if he could use her as a barometer, some way to clear this mess up.

"Yeah, but he was protecting me," Laurel replied, deflating that theory. "It's different."

Fair enough, Quentin was willing to concede, nodding. Queen loved Laurel. It didn't stop him from manipulating her, but she seemed to understand she was safe from being _hurt_ by the Hood and that colored her judgment. They watched the newscast in silence, until someone knocked at the door.

Quentin looked away. The last thing he wanted right now was strangers playing witness to his complete inability to keep inner conflict out of his facial expression. But Laurel started for the door. "It's probably Joanna," she explained en route, turning off the television. Quentin moved to follow her in the half-speed way of uncomfortable guests everywhere. "She said she was gonna come by with some files." 

But when she opened the door and Tom Merlin was standing there, Quentin stopped in his tracks. Ye god above. The _last_ thing either of them needed was _another_ spoiled needy rich twit around.

Tom was aware of the sudden descent of the Cloud of Awkward, and with the bravery of fools charged right into it. Walking past Laurel, he offered Quentin his hand. "Merry Christmas, sir, how are you?"

Quentin had a deep and abiding desire to bite Tom Merlin's head off at the shoulders. He shook Tom's hand, commenting levelly, "Proficient with firearms."

Tom got the hint, pausing with a wary stare - but Laurel's tone was the warning, 'stop interfering in my life' tone used by daughters to fathers everywhere. " _Dad_..."

"Yeah," Quentin replied, turning on his heel to head over to the other side of the house. Out of the way, and particularly out of range of doing what he really wanted to do, which was still to bite Tom Merlin's head off at the shoulders. 

She was going to have Words for him. He knew that. They'd had the argument before, after all. Just breathe, focus - or try to - and try to let go of the caveman urge to defend what was left of his family with a big damn club from all these rich people who made the law _not matter_. When the door closed, he walked back in, but couldn't keep the sharp defensiveness out of his voice. "I didn't know you were _friends_ with this guy. Now he's your - what?"

"I don't know what he is," Laurel admitted with a sigh as she turned around. "But he's not wrong. Something _is_ holding me back."

"Right," replied Quentin, biting his tongue on _good grief_. "Keep listening to that something." All but stalking away from the door, he couldn't stop himself from snapping, "I try to stay out of your personal life, Laurel, I really do, but these guys - Merlin, Queen - I mean they're selfish, they think they can treat people any way they damn please." _They'll trap you, Laurel, they'll trap you and you'll never get out._

But Laurel wasn't listening. Tom had left her a present, it seemed, and as he turned around he saw she'd opened it, was looking at it with surpise. "It's you, me, and Sarah."

"What?" asked Quentin, derailed. Laurel held up the gift; a framed photograph of days that would never come again. Himself, and both his daughters, smiling and alive and well. The anger drained away, leaving just the ashes of a grief that was never going to fade. Even when Laurel turned the image away, it didn't seem to do anything for its power to break the heart.

Laurel knew it was a bit of a low blow, even if Merlyn hadn't. She didn't object or comment when Quentin cleared his throat and said something that mostly added up to needing to get to work. But she did give him a firm hug, making Quentin wonder if Laurel was really ready to let her sister go.

_He_ wasn't. And he wasn't sure he ever would be. It was not given to fathers to just let their daughters go.

~*~

His demotion and general disfavor on the eyes of Nudocerdo meant that when "warehouse fire, arrow found" started being murmured around the HQ, Hilton stared at Quentin, pointed firmly at Quentin's desk, and said, "For the love of God and my patience, _stay_. I'll go for you."

Quentin was still smarting from Tom Merlyn's idea of a Christmas present, so Hilton just got a disgruntled grunt in reply. And, of course, Quentin staying put. While Hilton drove down to the Glades, Quentin looked over the copies of paperwork that his partner had 'acquired'.

This new archer was rich. No question about that. The arrowhead, the shaft, it all was custom ordered. But _not_ like the Hood's gear - it wasn't handcrafted. The lab had traced the patents laser-etched into the parts to a "Sagittarius" corporation, and a lot of 200 arrows of the same type.

Two _hundred_. Either that was the smallest Sagittarius would go for a custom order, or this new archer had a _long_ list...

The arrows had, however, been delivered to an untraceable address. That was an interesting bit of information; whoever had bought them had the tech skill to erase the traces of the purchase. Or, possibly more likely, enough money to hire such skill.

His phone rang; he picked it up. "Lance."

_"Quentin,"_ came Hilton's voice. _"You're not gonna believe this. There was a bomb. Green arrow on the interior of the door, just the head melted into the steel. Fire department's handling it, it's a chemical bomb. Looks like someone set a trap for the Hood."_

"There a body?" asked Quentin hopefully.

_"No such luck,"_ Hilton replied. _"I'll tell 'em to send me a copy of the arson report. Not having any luck here, it's all ablaze."_

"Thanks," said Quentin. "Might have a few answers on my end, actually. What was the address of that warehouse again?"

He took down the address, and hung up, tapping his pen against the notepad. He did a real estate search on the address.

Sagittarius again.

So _this_ was what the Hood had done with the arrow. Traced the patents to the company, the company to the warehouse...found a bomb.

Quentin decided that just this once he was going to forgive himself for the complete lapse of judgment involved in giving the Hood one of those arrows. This was a trail that was clear enough for the SCPD to follow. If the Hood hadn't set that bomb off, the police likely would have. He'd know more when the arson report came in.

Quentin went about assembling the data, and copies in case the Commissioner continued to insist that these psychos were interchangeable. Politics was one thing, but a fair shot that actual police officers could easily have been caught in that blast - and _would_ have been if the Hood hadn't broken in first - was the kind of thing that Nudocerdo couldn't afford to brush off if he wanted to remain genuinely in charge of his officers. Policemen took a dim view of suicide missions.

When Hilton returned - smelling more than a little of chemical smoke - Quentin just passed him the file of the correlated evidence, and refilled his coffee mug while Hilton looked it over. By the time he settled back in his seat, Hilton's expression was deeply soured.

"Vigilante war," he growled.

Lance shrugged. "More like two rich kids fighting in costume. The Hood pissed this new guy off, the new guy copies the Hood's costume and goes after him. It's like frat boys, but with more money."

"Not a popular theory upstairs," Hilton grumbled. "Which _means_ , Quentin, you keep your damn mouth shut around the bosses. You get busted any lower and I'll have to put in for a new partner, and it'll take months for a rookie to get my coffee order straight."

"Yeah yeah, love you too," Quentin handwaved flatly. "I think our best bet might be to stay out of the way and arrest the survivor, if we can."

"You didn't see that warehouse," Hilton warned, tilting his coffee cup toward Quentin. "This new guy _doesn't care_ about collateral damage. He's all about the overkill. Multiple arrows, bombs strong enough to damage warehouses _next door_. The firemen didn't find any bodies in that blaze. That means the Hood probably got clear. The copycat set a very big bomb, and didn't get his target. He's _going_ to escalate. You just watch."

Quentin winced. He trusted Hilton's instincts when it came to things like this. He just wished the news were better. Escalating from a chemical bomb? The news was definitely going to have a field day.

The wounded, cynical thought in the back of his mind was _and if Nudocerdo's front and center when they do, maybe I can watch the fallout._

~*~

It was unusual for the universe to pay any heed to Quentin Lance's personal wishes. But not unusual for it to grant them in the worst possible way. He and every other police officer in Starling City were called in on a hostage crisis in the Glades, only about half an hour before the media were alerted.

He noted the timing in a back-of-mind kind of way. _He wanted us here when the press arrived. He wanted the city to see us wringing our hands._ And Nudocerdo was obliging. This wasn't a press conference, where he could control the settings and the questions. This was civilian lives at stake, live on the ten o'clock news, and Nudocerdo wasn't a tactical thinker so much as an arse-coverer. If people's lives weren't at stake, Lance thought he might laugh at the deer-in-the-headlights panic the man was having. 

But right now, that moment was a long way away. That moment was later, after everyone was safe and the shift was over and he could watch the media circus on his DVR, knowing it had all turned out all right.

Right _now_ , survival instincts kept Nudocerdo between himself and the hungry, accusatory cameras, while he got an update by the good old fashioned method of eavesdropping during a slow approach to the commissioner's makeshift command center.

" - count three thresholds," the bomb squad was saying over the comm. "Each wired by mercury switches to semtex charges."

"Can you defuse one for HRT to use as a breach point?" demanded Nudocerdo.

Quentin couldn't stop himself intervening. There was a time and a place to let stupidity slide and this wasn't it. "Well, _that's_ gonna take a while," he snapped, "and then he's gonna know which way we're comin' in!"

"You got a better idea, _Sergeant_?" snapped Nudocerdo, but this time there was real fear behind his posturing. Not at Lance, still not at Lance, but at the situation that was far beyond his control - but for the outcome of which he would be held responsible. "Now would be a _lovely_ time!"

Quentin didn't answer. He'd do his best, of course, but not to pull Nudocerdo's ass out of the fire. He turned his attention to the laptop screens of the impromptu command center, where the broadcast of the black arrow vigilante's threats was being analyzed right along with the warehouse's schematics and the bomb squad's remote unit video feed.

This was some brilliant setup, he had to admit. The vigilante - well, at this point, _terrorist_ was much more appropriate - had taken his time, before alerting his audience. He wanted bodies, and he wanted the public blaming the police, and the Hood, for failing to prevent bodies.

Quentin didn't waste time wondering whether the Hood would respond. Quentin knew Oliver Queen ... _fairly_ well. Even with all the changes the man had evidently gone through. Queen's ego would take this threat to heart; he'd definitely be here. 

The question was really whether that would _help_ , or whether this time citizens were going to die in the crossfire.

"Hey, check it out!" said one of the bomb techs, pointing. Quentin looked up just in time to see a dark figure ziplining down to break through an upper storey window of the warehouse.

Well. That was _one_ way to get around trapped front doors. Quentin turned his attention to the live feed of the hostages, watching the Hood cut them free. Several others were watching with him. When they all followed the Hood off-camera, he turned to them. "What's back there? Where'd he take them?"

One of the techs called up a blueprint of the warehouse, showed it to Lance (and an annoyed Nudocerdo, who apparently wasn't going to interfere at the moment). "Stairs," said the tech. "There's a roof exit back there."

Quentin turned a look toward Nudocerdo, who latched on to this news as a drowning man might to a life-ring. "Choppers! We need choppers to the roof, get ropes, or nets, or something!"

Trust a toady to leap on at the important part. But there were other concerns. He counted heads as they emerged, and picked up the radio - much more efficient than shouting. "Hostages," he broadcast to all units. "We've got five hostages on the roof. Repeat, five hostages on the roof."

That got things moving. The helicopter units descended, lights shining, looking for people, offering rescue ropes. The bomb squad was still, of course, busy with its wired doors, but there was somewhat less pressure in knowing that the civilians would be safely out of harm's way regardless. 

Quentin let Nudocerdo get on with his posturing for the press. It wouldn't do the man any good - not now. The Hood had broken the stalemate and rescued the hostages unharmed, on live television. The best the police department could hope for was to not look like useless fools in the Hood's wake, and while Nudocerdo tried to spin his position, Quentin oversaw the bomb squad's efforts to keep the warehouse (and all its evidence) from exploding.

Thankfully, once the hostages were safely on the ground and telling their stories to the media, Nudocerdo lost interest in the actual events. That let Quentin and the other officers get on with their work with a minimum of fuss. 

Once the bomb squad had cleared one of the doors, Quentin ordered everyone to stay back and let the crime scene unit gather every scrap and drop of evidence they could.

There were no bodies - Hood, terrorist, or anyone else. But there were black and green arrows everywhere, and blood drops. There was, however, none of the terrorist's broadcast equipment. The man had gotten out with a lot of his gear. Lance prowled the site in frustration; the _best_ they could hope for was that some of this blood belonged to the terrorist.

At worst, it would all belong to Oliver Queen, and using DNA evidence to prove Oliver Queen had charged solo into a hostage situation and saved everyone was not the kind of evidence that was going to help Quentin's case building.

God, what a headache. 

It was well past dawn before all the bombs had been disarmed and taken into evidence, and all the evidence that _could_ be gathered had been.

Even so, Quentin kept his promise to himself. At the end of the shift, with the morning sun rising brightly, Quentin Lance headed home, and with his shotglass raised, saluted the morning newscast and its "inquiries into Commissioner Nudocerdo's handling of the Hood and the now-revealed terrorist".

Justice had a way of winning through in the end, after all.


	9. Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arson, murder, and a little bit of sneakiness.

The fallout from the warehouse hostage incident was in no way small or forgettable for the Starling City Police Department. The very _public_ and witnessed appearance of two different vigilantes, and the Hood's heroic actions caught on live television as well, had called Commissioner Nudocerdo's previous televised remarks into question.

When one policeman screwed up, Internal Affairs put his decisions under a microscope. When the _commissioner_ was caught in a very _public_ screw-up, the microscope was extended to the entire police force, with special attention paid to every order the commissioner had given, and it wasn't just IA doing the investigating, but every city reporter looking to make their name.

This, naturally, meant that Quentin Lance was also put under the microscope, and the handling - top to bottom - of the black-arrow archer and the Hood cases.

On the upside, Quentin Lance now had definitive proof that bureaucracy really did move more slowly than molasses in January. On the downside, it meant that his demotion was considered probationary pending the results of the investigation, and while - if it was decided he'd acted properly - his back pay would be issued to him, in the _meantime_ he had to make do with Sergeant's pay, and nobody was entirely sure where Lance stood within the structure of the department.

It was probably a good thing Queen was in the hospital - coinciding nicely with the Hood taking a Mysterious Leave of Absence - because Quentin couldn't be sure anymore whether his work on the Hood case wouldn't be all over the front page. And he also couldn't be sure whether, when the Hood _did_ officially re-emerge, that he'd be in the loop. 

The fact was, the Hood's actions had involved great personal risk. And they had saved a lot of lives; not just the civilian hostages, but members of the police force as well, and police tended to remember things like that. Quentin didn't have to ask how the officers felt about the Hood. Just listening to the casual office chatter indicated a sea change in the attitude of many of the police; the Hood was on their side, making their job easier and safer, and that made them a bit less willing to work on unmasking him.

To top it all off, he'd gotten (at home) one phone call from Ms. Spencer. It had been very brief and to the point: "If you attempt to contact my office about the Hood case before the internal investigation is over, I will personally hang your career by the throat until it stops twitching."

So he kept his head down, and didn't go verify Queen stayed in his hospital bed, and whenever his workload allowed for it, he talked over options regarding the Phone with the department's technical staff.

And there _was_ work to do. Quite a lot of it. Fires in the city - though those were handled primarily by the fire department, a 911 call did bring in police officers as well. The ongoing investigation into the missing Queen Industries CEO, which while going nowhere was generating a lot of paperwork, and of course the endless interrogations disguised as interviews by the Internal Affairs division and several city reporters. Even working the night shift didn't seem to deter them; you'd think they'd want to _sleep_ , but no.

He was on patrol when the 911 came in; building fire, fire department on its way, the usual. As the nearest car, Quentin answered the call and headed for the scene - and it was, admittedly, quite the blaze. He pulled up a working distance from the firemen, who clearly had enough to worry about, and set about his job in these affairs - namely, preventing rubberneckers and social media nuts from getting in the way of the firemen doing their job, or blocking traffic. Since the fire _was_ on the spectacular side, this kept him busy enough not to notice the relative silence behind him until Chief Raynes came up to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Lance," he said tiredly. "We got a problem."

Quentin turned away from giving a pair of late-night teens a pointed 'shove off' glare, and frowned at Raynes' expression. "Yeah?"

"It's Danny. We've lost contact."

Both of them knew that was a bad sign. At best, the man had improperly sealed his suit and collapsed from the heat or smoke. At worst... "How long?"

"We're looking for him now," said the chief. "But ten minutes." Awkwardly, he continued, "Lance...his sister works with your daughter, right? D'you think...?"

Quentin sighed. Nobody liked delivering this kind of news, and these days he needed all the friends he could get. "Yeah. I'll go with you. Let's hope your boys find Danny alive."

It was, of course, too much to hope for.

~*~

It was Later. Danny's body had been recovered, the paperwork handled (insofar as it could be before next-of-kin were notified) and, not least importantly, the sun had risen. Quentin had time for a shower and a change of clothes, and met Raynes outside Laurel's law office. Raynes was in dress uniform, with Danny's medals in hand, and looking about ten years older than he actually was. He'd had to do this much too often lately.

So Quentin said quietly, "I'll go first." And did so. He found his daughter and Danny's sister chatting cheerfully about some case or other, and endeavored not to wince as Laurel rose to greet him. 

God help her, she was happy to see him. "Dad. What brings you by?" she asked, but the smile faded quickly as she studied his face.

"I need to talk to Jo," said Quentin quietly. No wonder Raynes had been hesitant, really. Just doing this _once_ was bad enough.

And it had to be written all over his face, because Joanna was all kind concern. "Is everything okay, Mr. Lance?"

"No," said Quentin, pained. Damn, this was hard. But Raynes had finally gotten his own nerve up and Quentin watched Joanna's concern change to overt worry. As the chief approached her, walking past Quentin, he watched that worry become grieving realization.

"What's happening?" asked Laurel, not quite shifting gears quickly enough, but picking up on the change in the atmosphere.

"No," said Joanna quickly, warning, denying.

"Your brother Danny," said Quentin, as gently as he might. He was killed on duty last night."

"Jo," added Raynes, offering her his gloved hand. "I'm so sorry."

"No," repeated Joanna, as if by denying she could undo. "No! No!" She pushed back at Raynes, pushed back at what he was trying to tell her. "No! No!"

That was all she could say, trying to retreat, deny. Quentin watched as his daughter caught Joanna's shoulders and firmly held her friend steady, murmuring meaningless words of comfort. He was glad someone was there for Joanna, and proud in a sad way that his daughter could be that someone.

Quietly, to Raynes, he said, "Leave his things with Laurel." It was an offer of escape, of retreat, and the chief took it with relief. He left with Raynes, letting his daughter do what she did best, and headed home to catch some sleep before his next shift.

~*~

His breakfast was other people's dinner, and the evening news his morning update. Chomping into a microwaveable breakfast...thing, possibly someone's idea of a burrito, he listened with half an ear to the broadcast.

_"What strikes me is that this 'vigilante' was actually making a difference. In the four months that he was active, assaults were down, muggings down. The murder rate dropped by sixteen percent. So in a very quantifiable way, this 'man in the hood' had been a positive force in this city. So - where has he been for the past six weeks?"_

"In the hospital, lady," grunted Quentin, grabbing coffee. At first he was just annoyed that the police got _no_ credit for any of the reduction in crime, but then that last question hit a bright spot in his awakening brain. Of course he _knew_ where the Hood was, but the problem was _proving_ it. The phone was a connection, that's what phones were _for_.

Maybe there were other ways to get the proof he needed.

He headed into work, and made a beeline for technical services. 

Of course, the road to progress was full of potholes. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but we can't get anything useful off it," said Kelton, offering the phone back. "The only prints on it are yours, the tech inside it is military grade, I can't even trace the manufacturer. Forensics-wise, it's a dead end."

Quentin hefted the phone thoughtfully in one hand. "Could you put a bug in it, though?" he asked. "A transmitter. So anytime someone uses this phone, we get it on tape."

The tech reached out to take the phone again, opening it up to look at the internals. "Ye-es," he said slowly. "It'll take me a few hours. This thing's a pretty unique piece of work."

Quentin nodded. "Do that, then. And if my daughter turns up around here - she might, there's some stuff going on with her friend - don't mention the bug. Just say what you just said about dead ends and all so I know you've got the transmitter installed."

This got a wary look from Kelton. "And if I can't get the transmitter to work with this tech?"

"Then tell me anything else that sounds good," shrugged Quentin. "Good luck with that." 

Kelton's wary look didn't budge, though he did not agreement and get to work. Which was fine with Quentin, as he had work of his own.

He was expecting Laurel to drop by sometime near the end of his shift - morning, her time, before her office hours - and wasn't disappointed. But he _was_ surprised to be ambushed in the records office over a case of rampant denial. 

"Laurel, a fireman died fighting a fire," he protested. "I'm not sure I see the crime."

"I did some digging," said Laurel, quick and eager like a hound on the scent. Houndlike, she followed him all through the building, too. He would have admired it if the circumstances had been better. "Last week, another firefighter, Leo Barnes, was killed in action - same circumstances. Traces of turpentine, and ignition temperatures hotter than the actual fire. Do you think that you could talk to the fire marshal? You know, encourage him to pursue this?"

_Because Raynes hasn't got enough on his plate without accusing him of letting his men die,_ Quentin thought, as they reached his desk. He tried to fend her off. "Well, the fire department has its own investigative unit. They don't answer to the police."

Thankfully, Kelton had seen Laurel whoosh by in the halls, and put plan B into action. He approached, saying, "Sorry to take so long with it, detective." He handed Quentin the Hood's phone. "TSU's been really backed up."

Well. Did that mean he hadn't gotten the bug installed, or that he needed an opening? "What, did you find anything?" he asked, watching the tech to see if he remembered what to say, with Laurel there.

"The only prints on it are yours," Kelton repeated, although rather flatly - an actor, the man wasn't. "The tech inside it is military grade, I can't even trace the manufacturer. Forensics-wise, it's a dead end." Which meant _transmitter successfully installed_. Good. As Kelton walked off, Quentin sighed and dropped the phone - very visibly - onto the top of his desk.

"Another case?" asked Laurel, curious as he'd known she would be. It was weird, how easy this underhanded stuff was. Kind of uncomfortable.

"Vigilante," Quentin clarified, reminding himself to stick to the plan. "The phone belongs to him."

"Where'd you get it?" asked Laurel, uncertain. "Does he answer?"

"Well, like Kelton said, it's a dead end," said Quentin, and found he couldn't meet his daughter's eyes. Definitely uncomfortable, how easy this deceiving was. He shuffled papers on his desk, anything to look away. "Listen kiddo, I feel for Jo and her family, I really do, but there's not a lot I can do this end." He snagged his coffee, downing quite a bit of it, and set the cup down innocently by the Hood's phone. "I gotta go. I love you." And then he headed off after Kelton, snagging him for a less coded chat. "Hey, let's go." Leaving the phone unguarded, as it were, and free for the taking.

It was only after they'd gotten down the hall that Kelton, in a disapproving tone, said, "If that was what you were after, you should've said."

Quentin blinked. "Why?"

"Because that transmitter still has to be turned on," said the tech flatly. "It won't record anything as it is. You've handed her an untapped, direct line to the Hood."

... _Crap._

~*~

Quentin spent the next day not really sleeping, and the next night plowing through the paperwork in his inbox to avoid worrying about Laurel. It had been such a _clever_ plan. Bug the phone, let Laurel steal it - because he knew she would, she'd already demonstrated a soft spot for the Hood - and then let her and the Hood talk, getting it all on tape for later use in a formal arrest.

Letting her talk to the Hood _without_ recording it was ten different kinds of Bad Idea, for reasons including but not limited to having no idea what it was she'd talk to the Hood _about_. Hopefully, just this arson case. But he had to get the phone back from her. He had to activate the bug. There was no way he was going to let the Hood have an _unsupervised_ open line to his little girl, that was not in the plan at all.

But as he'd let her 'steal' the phone, he couldn't get it back before a reasonable time had passed to let him 'notice' the theft. He let it go for one day, therefore, and then all but pounced on Laurel at her office. "Hey. Can I talk to you, please?"

"What is it?" asked Laurel, with creditable innocence, as he led her off to a hall, dragging her away from Joanna, which under other circumstances he probably would've felt badly about.

"Where is it?" Quentin demanded, turning to face her, his worry presenting as anger. 

"Where's what?" asked Laurel, well aware that an open admission wouldn't go well.

"The _phone_ ," Quentin snapped, definitely angry now. It wasn't as if Laurel was four. She'd been caught, she knew she'd been caught, she needed to fess up.

And she did. "I'm sorry," she admitted, "I know I shouldn't have -"

"You've stolen evidence," snapped Quentin. "YEAH, you probably shouldn't have! What are you -"

"I had to do _something_ ," Laurel insisted, interrupting. 

"The man's a killer," Quentin retorted.

"Then why did he give you his phone?" asked Laurel, much too reasonably under the circumstances.

"Gimme the phone," demanded Quentin, wanting this over with.

"He took it back," Laurel hedged.

"You were _with_ him?" Quentin replied, wide eyed. He'd known she would try to contact him - why else take the phone - but so soon? What had they said? He hadn't - hopefully - revealed his identity to her.

"When Sarah died, if someone could've done something to give you even just a little bit of closure, don't you wish that they would've done it?" asked Laurel.

Worried for his little girl and guilty over the actions he had already taken and would continue to take, Quentin said something that he would come to regret. The hypocrisy of the words burning his ears almost as he said them, he snapped, "If it meant breaking the law, lying to the people closest to them, _no_."

He stalked off, his daughter's wounded expression and his own words ringing in his ears (but damnit, someone had to do _something_ ) as a reminder that if his daughter could deceive, well, she'd come by it honestly.

~*~

Quentin wasn't surprised that, after their argument, Laurel had nothing to say to him for a while. And with another fireman burned to death in another blaze, he wasn't surprised to get an angry phone call from Chief Raynes after the sun had risen. It got him out of bed, but - well, some things you just dealt with.

 _"Lance, did you send your girl over here to poke your nose into my jurisdiction?"_ Raynes demanded.

"Hrmhh, wha?" was Lance's not-quite-awake response.

_"Your daughter just swanned into my station, asking about the Fireflies and the Nodell Tower, like she's gearing up for a case! Is this your idea of friendship, Lance?"_

Oh. Fuck. Quentin took a moment to kick his half-awake brain into gear, and managed, "She's acting on her own. You know how she is. Her friend's grieving and she's grabbin' at straws. An' before you ask, she already came to me and I shut her down. Told her it's not police business."

_"Damn right it's not,"_ growled Raynes. _"You're saying you can't call her off."_

"She's gone way past the age where she does what her old man tells her," Quentin sighed, falling back into bed. "Tell you what, I'll cover pizza for the squad, make it up to you."

_"On your pay?"_ Raynes replied, almost humorously, and Quentin knew he'd been forgiven. _"Never mind. See you at the charity gala."_

He hung up, and Quentin hung his phone up and was almost asleep before the phrase 'charity gala' made it through his sleep-soaked brain, and he thought to ask, ' _what_ charity gala?'

~*~

The charity gala, as it turned out, was held by Queen and Merlin, at Queen's nightclub. Quentin didn't go - mostly because he knew that Raynes and Laurel _were_ going, and he didn't want to be held responsible for whatever Laurel decided to do while on this investigative kick of hers.

He did, however, keep an open channel to cars patrolling near the night club, because Oliver Queen would also be in attendance and it didn't take a firebug to know that putting those three people in the same building with alcoholic mixers had a high potential of not ending well. 

Mind you, he'd been _thinking_ in terms of 'political brouhaha' or possibly 'bare-knuckle brawl with potential to escalate'. A giant fire taking place at a fireman's charity gala was the sort of irony you had to be a scriptwriter or a playwright to come up with. It was a 911 call he answered, though in retrospect he couldn't remember _how_ ; he remembered hearing the report of a blaze, recognized the address as the club his daughter was at...and then he was across the street from the burning club, trying to wade through a sea of exiting guests, looking everywhere for Laurel.

Being overstocked, so to speak, with available firefighters, the blaze lasted only as long as it took the trucks and gear to arrive. And Quentin helped with directing and calming the crowd, though truly only so that he had a better chance of finding Laurel; he knew that she would keep her head, and he'd find her (if he found her at all) doing the same things he was.

As the hoses flared to life, dousing the flames, he found her with Tommy Merlin, watching the firemen work. 

He didn't go to her, though he wanted to. The parental instinct to hug her tightly and never ever let her go _ever_ was, he knew by now, not very helpful. So he stood back, and took deep breaths, watching her until he could get himself under control.

When she saw him, she said, "The Hood came. It was Lynns. He was going to burn Chief Raynes, but the Hood stopped him. We got everyone out..."

All but one, as it turned out. The body of Lynns was found inside, too charred to make any kind of guess as to whether the Hood had shot him first.

The news declared the Hood a 'hero', with no mention of the brave work of the firefighters, or even of his daughter in seeing the many guests to safety. And Quentin remembered the Plan. 

The next day, he dropped by Laurel's law offices, offering a quiet, "Hey," to Joanna, as she hefted a box of her things.

"Hey," Joanna replied, pausing briefly.

"You look after yourself, all right?" Quentin offered.

"I will," Joanna replied, and headed out of the office.

"Good," said Quentin. Then, to Laurel, "So, Joanna's takin' a leave of absence, huh?"

"She has to go be with her family," said Laurel, holding what looked like a medal case in her hands.

_Betting that's not for you,_ Quentin thought, but said, "Yeah. Well, family's important."

"I already apologized," Laurel pointed out.

"It's...my turn," Quentin offered. "After what happened last night, maybe it's a good thing you got the Hood involved. He didn't take the phone off you, did he," he asked, giving her a Look. She wouldn't have taken the medal case if she hadn't been sure she could deliver it - and his guess was proved right when she, somewhat guiltily, handed over the Hood's phone.

At _last_.

Resolving to have guilt trips about this _later_ , Quentin turned away, quickly activating Kelton's little bug. Then he turned back, pretending he'd changed his mind, and offered Laurel the phone back. "Maybe you should hold on to this," he offered. "I mean, I may not like the guy's methods, but whoever this guy is, he's got a habit of putting himself between danger and you. And that's not something I can argue with." He held the phone out to her. "Besides. I shouldn't have this thing, anyway." With a little smile that hid the part of him that was trying dutifully to nutkick the rest of him, Quentin walked away.

And when he got back to the precinct, he beelined for Technical Services, and Kelton's desk. "Kelton. What've we got?"

"I've got a strong signal from the crystal VHF transmitter you hid in the speaker, and it can't be backtraced," said the tech, watching his screen.

"Talk to me like I'm a third grader," said Quentin. "Please."

"Next time your daughter calls the vigilante," clarified Kelton, "we'll be able to listen to every word."

Quentin exhaled, and turned away with a nod. So now the leash was in place. The evidence could be gathered. He just hoped the price would be worth it, and that he wouldn't have to explain this particular choice to his little girl. He rather suspected she wouldn't understand.

"I know you swore to bring this guy down, detective, but using your own daughter as bait...that's stone cold," said Kelton, shaking his head in admiration.

It wasn't what the tech had to say, but how the tech seemed to feel about it that curled Quentin's lip. Yes. it _was_ cold. And he _wasn't_ proud of it. But it had to be done, and it wasn't worthy of admiration just because he was willing to do it. Shaking his head, Quentin headed back to his desk. 

There was still a lot to do before that phone got called into play.


	10. Trust but Verify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armored car heists that are carried off with military precision, and John Diggle in the middle of it all somehow.
> 
> This one's more guesswork than most, since Our Hero Detective only actually appeared in a news clip at the beginning. But I'm a touch proud of it, even so.

Quentin stared at the screen with his jaw open. "...I'm gonna arrest 'em myself."

He and the rest of the department were watching the TV screen, and the 'exclusive' traffic camera footage of the armored car heist, with varying degrees of aggravation and disgust.

"You'd think there were no upstanding citizens left around here," Hilton remarked. "Going for the ratings instead of handing the footage in."

Quentin gave his former partner a 'don't _you_ start' glare. "The first break in this case we get and it's all over the morning news." He eyed the doors he'd come through only minutes before. Reporters, well aware that juicy happenings were going on just out of sight, were still packed up against them. Just waiting for some angry cop to come out and make their ratings day by catching a rant by Starling City's finest on film.

It was so tempting to do as he'd threatened and go back out there to arrest the lot of them. For trespassing and obstruction at the very least. But he was in enough hot water as it was - the bug he'd risked so much to plant hadn't gotten so much as a ping. The Hood was busy elsewhere, it seemed. _Probably family issues. Again._ No one did drama like the idle rich.

One of the detectives who _wasn't_ being scrutinized went out to convince the reporters, with the flat patience often employed by those who knew their superiors were looking for any reason to fire them, that they should disperse, let the police get on with their work, and by the way send that 'exclusive' footage to said police so they could get on with being, as it were, policemen. To his credit, he stayed out there - looking grimly uncooperative, and incidentally blocking the door - until the reporters grasped that the fun was over for the morning and left.

The others didn't make a big deal out of it, but the detective found a hot mug of coffee on his desk and first pick of the donut box without any actual commentary being involved.

It was one of the techies that frowned at the recording of the news ( _how_ they'd done this was a bit beyond Quentin, but apparently anybody could record anything off the TV these days, didn't even need a VCR or whatever they were called now) and noted, "That looks practiced. I mean, like they really knew what they were doing. We got any veterans on shift?"

Not on the morning swing shift, or the day shift, it seemed, though it was a good enough idea that word got around fast. Word was left at the front desk to ask anyone coming on shift if they had military experience, and to check in with the officer covering the armored car heists if they did.

And Quentin settled down at his own desk, got his coffee and his official breakfast pastry - honestly, he preferred the egg and sausage burritos, but the 'morning snack' plate was on a rota - and settled in for a long and relatively quiet morning of catching up on his reports and his paperwork.

He did two of them, now. One for his own notes, wherein he made detailed records of when the Hood was seen in an area, and cross referenced it for Oliver Queen's alibi, along with every scene where the Hood's green custom arrows were found and anything else that might possibly ever prove to the world that he wasn't nuts and Oliver Queen really was the Hood. The other was the more 'official' report. Just as detailed regarding the Hood, but he left Oliver Queen's whereabouts out of it. His current standing in the department had made abundantly clear that nobody in the hierarchy was at all interested in his 'speculations', no matter how strong the circumstantial evidence might seem.

One of the officers on the evening swing shift turned out to have military experience. Officer Shelley - his last name, and anyone that looked at him knew better than to smile - confirmed that the tactics caught on the traffic cam were indeed in current use by armed forces, and that the men on the recording weren't amateurs imitating military tactics, but were most likely veterans. 

Detective Buson, running the armored car case, put an arm around Shelley's shoulder and said, "Congratulations, you're on the case."

~*~

He was nowhere near as polite, or pleased, when he called Quentin up around two in the morning. "Sergeant. Your pet lunatic's attacked again. Get down to Blackhawk Security and deal with it."

 _Pet lunatic._ As if, because he kept track of the Hood's involvement in cases, he was somehow responsible. But then, maybe he was. He _knew_ who the Hood was, after all. If he couldn't convince anyone else, well...clearly he needed to up his game in persuasion, or something. Quentin hung up, rolled out of bed, grabbed a thermos of black coffee and his uniform and headed out. Clearly, he was going to be back on the night shift for a while now.

Blackhawk Squad Protection Group was basically a halfway house for veterans who didn't know what to do with themselves in civilian life. They hired vets out for everything from babysitting rich kids to security guard work at malls to actual _security_ work, transporting sensitive materials or data. Anything where generalized 'military training', without any kind of diplomas, degrees, or other civilian skills, might look good. As such, they turned a tidy profit, and had a pretty corporate office.

Into which someone had broken, tranquilized several employees-slash-operatives with darts (currently being looked over by emergency services), and who had seriously ruffled an office before fleeing. Quentin was on the verge of being impressed (how often was it that the Hood left _without_ bloodshed?) when he saw John Diggle, aka Oliver Queen's shadow, sitting in a chair and chatting amiably with another man with the air of 'military' about him and enough bruising to suggest he'd met the Hood.

He eyed Diggle, who gave him that polite blank 'yessir' face, and took out his notepad. "All right, who wants to tell me what happened?"

Quentin was neither surprised nor pleased to see the two men exchange looks; it told him these two had had time to get their story straight. The one who had the battered appearance stood up, and offered Quentin his hand. "Ted Gaynor," he offered by way of introduction. "I work here. About an hour ago, the Hood broke into the offices, came up here, and attacked me. Mr. Diggle here was coming by for a visit, saw the attack, and intervened. I guess the Hood didn't like the odds. He shot out a light and used the flash-blindness to make himself scarce."

Quentin duly shook the man's hand, then wrote down the statement. "And you, Mr. Diggle?" he asked, endeavoring to keep sarcasm out of his voice. "What brought you here with such perfect timing?" _Not being a plant by your boss, maybe?_

Diggle stood up, hands behind his back at a casual parade rest, letting Quentin know he was going to get the official report and nothing more. "I was here to visit my friend and former commanding officer, who had mentioned an employment opportunity here at Blackhawk. As he said, I saw the Hood attacking and intervened."

"Uh..huh," said Quentin slowly, dutifully writing it down but not believing a word of it. _Setup. What's Queen up to? Why here?_ "Anything stolen? Anyone seriously injured?"

"Not that we have been able to determine," said Mr. Gaynor in a pleasant but firm tone. "If we find anything's missing we'll be sure to report it."

"Mind if I take a look at the scene?" asked Quentin in turn, in the same tone. The Hood had had a goal in mind, coming here. Probably planting Diggle - make Diggle look good, get him inside...to what end, Quentin couldn't begin to guess.

Then again, hadn't Shelley mentioned that the tactics used were military? And Blackhawk hired a _lot_ of veterans. 

"Not at all," Gaynor said, interrupting Quentin's line of thought. The sergeant nodded, and headed inside. Looking for...anything, really. Whatever he might find.

The Hood hadn't done his usual upper-storey tactic this time. No broken window with a zipline-arrow. He'd fought his way in, leaving an unusual lack of body count, and fled along his cleared path. The office had the look of being the scene of the fight, possibly there _were_ things missing but in the wreckage it'd be hard to say what. And, true to Diggle's statement, there was a green arrow embedded in the light source, and the smell of burnt filament. He took a few pictures, for his own records, before donning gloves to remove the arrow. This was an incident report, no charges being pressed - which again smelled fishy to Quentin - so if he didn't take the arrow it was likely to just be thrown out.

Photography finished, he walked back out to the hall where the two vets were waiting for him. "I'll keep this, if you don't mind," he said. "Sure about the not filing charges?"

"Sergeant, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon get back to my work," said Gaynor pleasantly. "I've seen a lot worse in my time than some twit with a bow and arrow set. It'd take more than that to send me home."

Quentin glanced at Diggle, who only said, "I don't work here yet. Not my call."

"All right," said Quentin. "Well, if you think of anything you want to add to your statements, give us a call. Or if the Hood decides to try again."

"I don't think he will, sir," said Diggle, and something in his tone told Quentin that his idea about Diggle being Oliver's plant might not, in fact, be right.

"I hope you're right," said Quentin, with a polite-ish little smile, and headed back to his car with another arrow for his collection. Honestly, just the fact that the Hood could afford all these custom arrows was enough to narrow the suspect pool hugely.

Once back at the precinct, he walked over to Detective Buson's desk and held out the arrow. "Your job just got harder," he said, not unsympathetically.

Buson eyed the arrow with a scowl. "Tell me." He paused. "No. Wait. Lemme get more coffee. Then tell me."

Quentin took a seat while the detective got himself his comfort drink. "The Hood's taken an interest in your case, I think."

Buson sighed. "He didn't kill the fuckin' suspect again, did he?"

Quentin shook his head. "What've you got on a guy named Ted Gaynor?"

The detective blinked, thoughtful, and tapped a file. "This Hood guy, I'd kill for his sources. I called the local base once Shelley ID'd the tactics as military. Showed 'em the video, got back a list of veterans in the city with the right kind of training. I was _just_ looking it over when the call came in. Gaynor's got six years of experience behind him, including training with grenade launchers. So the Hood thinks he's behind the heists?"

Quentin shrugged. "In my experience it's not a great idea to plan based on what the Hood does or doesn't do," he says. "But Blackhawk _does_ hire a lot of vets. Any others with the right kind of experience?"

This time Buson scowled. "Yeah. Several actually. It's gonna take days to run through everyone's alibis. And that's if the Hood doesn't just shoot 'em all."

Quentin nodded, thinking. "You might be in luck. The Hood played softball with these guys. Tranquilizer darts, and no real property damage. Looked to me like he doesn't want to piss off a whole building of bored ex-military." He didn't add that the Hood had apparently fled from just two men. In his view, that Diggle was one of them tainted that data.

"Yeah," drawled Buson. "Just dripping with luck, me. I'll sign you on to this case. Go get some sleep. You're back on the night shift, and I'm gonna need you alert if the Hood's taking an interest in things."

~*~

Detective Buson turned out to have exactly the right view of things. The very next night - thankfully, after Quentin had caught up on his sleep - a call came in from an armored car. One of the drivers gave a panicked location, reporting an attempted heist and gunfire. The car had gotten away and would complete its delivery, and _then_ the two drivers would swing back to give their statements. Meantime, Buson, Lance and Shelley headed out to the scene to see what kind of evidence might turn up about what had happened and why the heist had derailed. Buson, being of the 'not an idiot' variety, also sent an officer over to Blackhawk to check on alibis. If the heists _were_ being perpetrated by members of Blackhawk, there should be a few missing men.

The scene, when they reached it, was relatively poorly lit, with decent cover from the sides of the street. The policemen pulled over, got out of their cars, and started examining the scene.

"Got a blood pool, here," Shelley noted, crouching down. "Fresh. Did the drivers report any injuries?"

"No," said Buson, checking some overturned trash cans. "Burn marks, here. Inside the lid. There's a spent gas canister over here, too."

It was, naturally, Quentin that found the grenade launcher - with the green arrow through it. "The Hood got here in time to stop them," he said flatly. Nobody liked hearing that a nutcase in a green jumpsuit was doing the cops' job for them. He took out his camera, and took photos of the launcher-with-arrow. 

" _How?_ " demanded Buson, angrily. " _We_ don't get updates on armored car routes unless there's a demand for extra protection. How'd the Hood know where the robbers would be?"

"Blackhawk," Quentin guessed. "They didn't report anything stolen, but that office was tossed. They couldn't exactly report plans of armored car routes they weren't supposed to have anyway being stolen. But if the Hood got his hands on them, it makes sense that both he and Blackhawk knew where the car would be, and when."

"Guesswork!" Buson snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Quentin. "We need this little thing called _proof_ to make a case, sergeant."

Quentin shrugged. "Just a guess, _Detective_ ," he said flatly, moving on to study the bullet holes. "But one that fits what we know so far."

The CSIs were duly called in to make a record of the scene; it went on well past Quentin's shift, but that wasn't unusual when someone brought a machine gun to the game. It always took them hours to find all the bullets. Quentin prowled it a while, staying out of their way, and wondered who the blood pool belonged to. By the look of it, whoever had been hit had been carried out. Either way, Quentin didn't lay long odds on the injured party turning up at Starling General for treatment.

But he left a message with the staff there anyway. You never knew; sometimes, you got lucky.

Later, the statements provided by the drivers were less than helpful; between lack of light and dark clothing, all they could confirm was that there'd been a guy in the middle of the road with some kind of gun, then something had knocked his gun out of his hands. The driver had swerved the armored car to go around him and hit the gas, just as gunfire broke out behind them.

The CSIs were still tracking down the gas grenade, and the blood pool had had samples taken for DNA testing. It would take a little time, but they _would_ catch the responsible parties.

Quentin filed his report, leaving a copy on Buson's desk, and made his own notes for the Hood file. When he clocked out, he almost felt hopeful. They'd gotten some solid leads, this time.

~*~

The robbers had, thus far, not hit more than one armored car in a week. Quentin hadn't been alone in thinking they'd have _time_ to run down the gas canister and test the blood pool's DNA. So it was to surprised silence that the panicked call came in - armored car under attack, narrowly escaping.

Buson's whole little team grabbed their jackets and weapons at the same time. What had made them break pattern? That they'd _failed_ the night before? 

But this time, when they arrived on scene, they were not alone. There were three dead bodies, a black van, a terrified woman...and John Diggle, alone, trying to comfort her.

_Crap._

Quentin didn't say it aloud. By now he knew better than to do so. The Hood had not been merciful, this time. But it might not have been all or even mostly the Hood's work; only one of the bodies had the telltale arrow sticking out of it.

As the three policemen approached, weapons drawn, Diggle calmly held up his hands and waited for them to assure themselves he wasn't bait for some kind of trap. The woman was crying in the hysterical manner that suggested she couldn't stop even if she wanted to, and Diggle only said, "Hold on," when Shelley tried to head him off to a car to take him back to the precinct.

"There a reason we should?" Quentin asked bluntly. "There's a lot of bodies around you, don't know if you noticed that."

"Carly's my sister in law," said Diggle firmly. "They kidnapped her to make me work for them. I'm happy to answer your questions but I think she'd rather I stayed with her."

"So you can tell her -" began Buson, but stopped when the woman - Carly - nodded repeatedly and grabbed firmly onto Diggle's arm. "...Well. Okay," he said, nonplussed. "Both of you. Pick a car and get in. Shelley, take their statements and...get her some water."

Once they were on their way, he turned to Quentin. "What's your take?"

Quentin looked over the bodies. "That one's definitely the Hood," he said, pointing to the one with the arrow in it. "That's Gaynor. Diggle said they were old war buddies." _And you don't shoot your old CO. That's what friends are for._ He looked over the other two. One had clearly taken a grenade to the chest at much too close a range. "That one, I'd give to Diggle. If they were trying to recruit, he'd have the risky job." The third had a broken neck. "This one...can't say. Diggle or the Hood. Either'd have the skill. Willing to bet they're all on Blackhawk's payroll, too."

He was trying not to think about Diggle, and the curiously perfect timing the man had had. Whether the Hood really had planted Diggle or not, it had worked out well for the Queens. He and Buson worked the scene quietly, taking pictures of the dead faces for later identification, and then called in the CSIs to handle the heavy work.

When they got back to the precinct, the pictures were shown to Carly and Diggle for their statements. Diggle identified Gaynor as the mastermind, Knox as the operation leader, and Cavanagh (the grenade to the chest victim) as the man who'd kidnapped Carly to force Diggle's cooperation. All were Blackhawk staff. Neither could offer insight as to who had been injured in the previous night's firefight, and a warrant was requested to search Blackhawk for evidence of the body.

Everything about Diggle's account added up, so in the end he and Carly were free to go.

There was still a lot to do, so Quentin was a bit late in hearing what counted as the latest juicy gossip from the idly stupid rich...


	11. Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vengeance can look like social justice, if the target is right.

While Quentin Lance was well known within the precinct as the expert on the Hood, he was generally the last to know what was going on with Casa Queen - unless it was on the news - since the unfortunate attempt at proving Oliver _was_ the Hood. It was his fellow officers' way of protecting him from any accusations of stalking the Queens, or harassing the Queens, or giving the Queens funny looks. Whether or not they deserved any or all of the above, they were still obscenely wealthy and could afford vicious attack lawyers. Union or no union, the city still tended to find it easier and cheaper to fire targeted officers than undertake the expense of a court battle against the Queens.

And it wasn't as if he didn't _already_ have one of the Queen household to process. Taking Diggle's statement - and Carly's - with regard to the Blackhawk heists, and getting all the bodies identified, had taken the rest of the night. 

He _probably_ should have taken the absence of a media storm - hey, they'd caught the robbers, the heists would stop - as a Hint. But he'd been too tired to notice, or care (beyond a vague sense of gratitude) and so had simply gone home at the end of his shift, and gone to bed. The Hood had stopped the heists, and as usual there were no survivors, but there were a lot of loose ends left to tie up.

The next night seemed routine at the start. He went along with Buson and Shelley to execute the search warrant on Blackhawk. This mostly involved locking down the offices and confiscating computer equipment so the hard drives could be examined. Nothing particularly exciting, but satisfying in its way. They'd follow the evidence, work within the system, and eventually they'd know who had known, who had been involved, and where the money had gone.

When they reached the garage, and discovered the second labels under the "Blackhawk Protection Squad" logos on the vans, they called in the CSI teams. It turned out to be a good call, as one of the vans had a fair quantity of blood in it. However, although they searched rather more thoroughly after that, there was no sign of a body.

Then Buson got a call. He left them to take it, and when he returned, he approached Quentin. "You need to get moving," he said. "We can handle this from here. Seems the Hood's moved on to a new target."

Quentin frowned. "What now?"

"Officer found some guy hanging from a bridge," said Buson. "Alive, for a change, but pinned there by a green arrow." He hiked his thumb toward the street. "Better move it. Sixth and Addison."

"Busy little bee, the Hood," said Quentin gruffly, and headed for his car.

Sure enough, hanging from a steel beam - and really, only the Hood could afford arrows that would pierce a steel beam, stick there, _and_ hold the weight of an adult male. This one was actually relieved to see the flashing lights of a police car, which only confirmed that yes, it had been the Hood that stuck him up there. Only the Hood's victims were _relieved_ to see mere law enforcement.

"Evening," Quentin called up with a terrible sort of cheer. "Enjoying the view?"

"Get me down!" the man yelled, pleading. 

"Well. That could be a problem, couldn't it?" asked Quentin, in his best stupid-beat-cop voice. "I mean, if I climb up there and slip, you could be on the hook for injuring an officer of the law."

The man didn't even try snarking about bad punnage, which told Quentin he really _was_ terrified. "I'll tell you everything, just please, _please_ get me down!"

Quentin didn't move, except to take out his notepad and pen. And give the man an expectant look. There wasn't anything on the books about _having_ to rescue someone who wasn't in immediate, obvious danger. And he might as well save some time. If the man were guilty of anything, experience had taught Quentin to trust that fear of the Hood would have him re-spilling his guts in a voluntary confession later anyway. It just helped to know if there were any leads to be followed in advance.

"It was the Hood!" yelped the pinned man in a desperate bid to be allowed to touch ground again. "He wanted to know where I get my stock."

Quentin paused. This wasn't the Hood's usual breed of criminal. White collar executives, ex-military...not _drug pushers_. "And that would be...?" he asked, dutifully writing this down. Why would the Hood go after drug dealers? The death rate hadn't gone up at all recently. 

"The Count!" yelled the guy in a panic. "He's gonna kill me anyway for telling the Hood, you gotta help me out here. Protective custody or something."

Maybe. If only because the Hood chasing drug dealers was not normal or right. "So, what can you tell us about the Count then?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything!" And the pinned man was realizing he had nothing to offer in exchange for his life. "I'm sure - we can find stuff out! Set up a sting, or - or whatever it is you people do! I can be useful, I _swear_!"

Quentin put away his notebook and pen. The poor guy knew nothing of any value, had been yelling his head off, and from what little the Department had on the Count, just knowing the guy's name was enough to invite reprisals. There really wasn't any saving the man. But he could offer a head start, at least. He took a running jump, caught the overhang that doubled as the base of an emergency ramp, and pulled it down so that the dealer could safely get his jacket free of the arrow and make a break for it.

Once the dealer was safely gone, Quentin bagged and tagged the arrow and headed back to the station to finish his paperwork on the Blackhawk case. Clearly something new had caught the Queen's eye, and he needed to find out what.

Two more files got dropped on his desk before shift's end. Drug pushers, with green arrows. _So, not specific. Not the pushers, but maybe this Count..._

Which would mean he'd have to talk to Vice. Given his questionable status around the department, it might be better to keep his head down and his ears open for a bit.

~*~

Quentin got his answers sooner than he'd hoped; the very next day, as he was bringing in his coffee to start his shift, he paused in the hallway. Oliver, in the precinct? Of his own will? _And talking to Vice. The drug pushers didn't have the answers he wanted._

Rather than start his day with the headache of making Oliver Queen practice his bald-faced lying at him, Quentin stayed back, sipped his coffee, and watched them. Detective Hall seemed very much at ease with Queen. Friendly, not worrying about personal space. Friends, possibly. On good terms, certainly. Quentin tried not to consider that an automatic black mark, but it didn't speak well of the detective's sense of judgment. Neither did watching her pass Queen a file from her desk, though her guarded posture thereafter suggested that might be her line. 

It was, apparently, enough for Queen. At least for now. Oliver took his leave, and Quentin took the opening. Walking around toward Detective Hall's desk, coffee still in hand, he asked, "What'd Queen want?"

Detective Hall was getting ready to go out; strapping on her harness, holestering a gun. "He's an old friend," she replied, dismissive. "Sister's jammed up." Finishing, she caught a look at Quentin's face, and whatever she saw there gave her pause. Curious, she asked, "Anything else, Sergeant?"

In truth, Quentin had the stone face that tended to happen when pieces were falling into place. Oliver's _sister_. Anything that happened to the Queen family _would_ have Oliver shooting whoever he thought might need it. He did manage a basic, "No," reflexively drinking the coffee as Detective Hall departed.

Thea Queen in trouble. What _were_ the odds it was drug related. 

Once he'd finished his coffee, he took the time to get thoroughly apprised of the Situation Of Baby Queen. It didn't take much. Apparently, while he'd been busy with the armored car heists, Ms. Queen had been taking, aha, _vertigo_. And while higher than the average kite, had totaled a brand new car, briefly hospitalizing herself.

Quentin checked the dates, to be sure. Yeah. Right after Thea was hospitalized, The Hood started pinning vertigo pushers to handy architecture. Oliver was clearly too pissed off to even _try_ hiding his tracks. He made some copies for his private evidence files on the Hood, because that was a pretty strong motive connection and might come in handy later. 

That left him with the rather unpleasant question of what Queen was going to do next. He'd hit the pushers. He'd tapped his local friendly vice officer. What now? Did he have what he needed, or what would he be looking for next?

_Well. He's got a name. He'll want a face._ Drawing the Count out of hiding. Possibly to shoot him. Well, no. _Probably_ to shoot him. And the Count _had_ to know he was coming. He'd been shooting at the Count's dealers, after all, and leaving them alive - though really, death by green arrow was a fairly unique signature too.

There really wasn't a scenario that wasn't going to include a large body count, Quentin realized, frowning at his notes. And okay, he wasn't allowed to pursue the Hood case _directly_ , but still. Body count. He had to do _something_.

He gathered up the files on the Hood's attacks on drug pushers, and took them over to Vice. The Hood was hunting their turf, now. Cops were territorial in their way. He might be able to talk the chief into a joint task force.

~*~

The attempt at crossing departmental divides paid off rather quicker than Quentin had really expected, police being territorial animals and he himself not in the highest of standing just at that point.

_"You said if we found any signs of the Hood, give you a call. Not sure, but we may have found one. Head to the warehouse district in the Glades. Pretty sure the flashing lights'll guide you the rest of the way."_

It wasn't the warmest of welcomes, but Quentin grabbed his keys and headed for the car. The man on the other end of the line had sounded, if anything, puzzled. And that didn't jive. The Hood was pretty clear about how he killed people, and with what. Maybe the arrows were black?

_That_ thought was enough to get him to push the speed limits to get to the Glades. And, as promised, once he'd reached the warehouse district, the lights from a pair of squadcars were guide enough.

"So, what's the story?" he asked, curious, as he stepped in.

"See for yourself," said a cop whose voice Quentin matched to the man on the phone, as he stepped inside. 

Dead drug pusher. Familiar drug pusher, even. Quentin looked around. "Where's the arrow?"

The other detective bent down and pushed his finger through a hole in the dead pusher's jacket. "Through and through, but no gunpowder residue. Self inflicted gunshot by the look of it, but we'll be having him tested. He's a known pusher, maybe someone held the gun in his hand and made him pull the trigger. Pretty likely, since we haven't found any sign of the gun." 

"Hood didn't do this," said Quentin slowly, but fairly sure of his guess. "I found this guy yesterday. Hanging from a beam by an arrow through that hole in his jacket." He tilted the corpse's head, noting the two little puncture marks on the body's neck. _Hm._

"And you didn't arrest him?" asked the detective, surprised.

Quentin shrugged and played stupid. "It's not illegal to be stuck to a beam by an arrow. The Hood questioned him, he told me. About his stock, which he didn't have on him. About the Count." He looked around. The place had the look of an abandoned drug-factory, homestyle. Then indicated the puncture wounds on the man's neck. "Guess the Count found out."

The detective nodded. Without drugs on him, anything he'd said while being hung from a beam by an arrow _could_ pretty easily be tossed out as a forced confession. "So, we're looking at the first shots of a war between the vigilante and the drug cartels."

"Just Vertigo's, I think," said Quentin slowly. "Was handling reports all last night of the Hood trying to track the source of Vertigo."

The detective looked blank. "Why just the one?"

"That, my friend, is the million dollar question," drawled Quentin, trying hard not to even _think_ the words 'Thea Queen'.

~*~

He really should have been expecting Laurel to get involved. It was a court battle, she was a lawyer. And it involved the Queens, therefore Oliver, who would certainly not hesitate to use any connections he had.

But somehow, his head had been so full of wondering just how bad the Hood vendetta against the drug pushers would get, at street level, that when his daughter ambushed him in the parking lot outside the police station, he was actually surprised.

"I need a favor," she said, smiling her best 'please, daddy' smile as she walked quickly toward him. 

That alone told him he wasn't going to like what she had to say. "Listening," he replied, locking his car.

"I need you to intercede with the judge handling Thea Queen's case," said Laurel quickly.

Quentin didn't even look around. "Absolutely not," he said flatly, thinking he really should've seen this coming and one day he'd really like to punch Oliver in the face for being a manipulative jerk.

Laurel knew it, too. "Dad," she said, keeping at it, "I know how you feel about Oliver."

"Then why would you even ask me to do this?" snapped Quentin, still not looking around. Mostly because Laurel's voice still had that _please, daddy_ note in it and he had a very hard time saying no if he was watching her face too.

"Because Thea, she's only eighteen years old," pleaded Laurel, stepping quickly to keep up.

"Which makes her an _adult_ ," said Quentin firmly. "She can take her medicine. S'about time _someone_ in the Queen family did." Not, of course, that they would do so willingly or without a fight. The entire family had some major issues with the word 'consequences'.

"What about the Lance family?" asked Laurel, changing tone, and he knew that meant she'd decided wheedling wasn't going to work. "A young girl, acting out, engaging in reckless behavior - does that sound familiar?"

_Sarah_. It did. And it hurt. As Laurel had known it would. Taking a deep breath just slightly ragged despite his best efforts, he said firmly, "Laurel, don't go there." _Don't dig in old graves._

But Laurel was a lawyer, and knew how to go for the throat when it suited her. "Thea, she is _just like_ I remember Sarah."

"That is _not_ how I remember _your sister_!" snapped Quentin, walking more stiffly.

"That's because you remember her the way you wish she had been," retorted Laurel, and that made Quentin stop, and turn to face her, "not the way that she actually was!" But Laurel faltered, just a bit, seeing her father's stony expression staring at her. "She's not the saint that you make her out to be."

Quentin looked away, having a hard time believing that Laurel really meant this, that it wasn't just a lawyer trick to twist his emotions.

"I know that she was arrested for shoplifting," said Laurel quietly. "And I know you made it go away."

So she'd found out about that. He'd bent the rules, for his little girl, and, "Well," he said roughly, "maybe if I'd let her go to jail, Queen wouldn't have had her on that damn boat."

"Dad, you make it sound like he kidnapped her," said Laurel, proving that she'd missed the point entirely. "For so long, you and I have blamed Oliver for Sarah's death, but Sarah's to blame too."

That went against the grain. Blaming the victim. And Sarah had been a _victim_ on that boat. Whatever had happened, it hadn't been because of _her_. Quentin looked away. He knew his daughter was pushing his buttons, but that didn't make her tactics less effective.

"When I look at Thea," said Laurel, pushing her advantage, "I see Sarah's potential in her. And her flaws, too. Yes, Thea made a mistake. But she's been through a lot. She lost a father, and a brother. She doesn't need prison. She needs help. So, please."

Quentin just stared at his daughter. Part of him was proud of her. Couldn't help being proud of her. She was a damn good lawyer. Ripping at his guilt and _then_ presenting a reasonable offer. And if he was bleeding from it, well, maybe that was for his own good. Laurel presented a good case. Something he could take to a judge. With a little shake of his head, acknowledging his defeat, he said, "I'll make some calls."

This time, when he turned away, to enter the station, Laurel did not follow him.

~*~

Pride in his daughter's skills and tenacity only held out for so long with Judge Brackett snarling at him over the phone. _"Don't tell me you're soft on addiction,"_ Brackett snapped.

"You know I'm not, your honor," said Quentin tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But look at it like this. The Queens are fighting your verdict tooth and nail. Y'know what's next? An appeal. They've got the money, the lawyers, and the time to invent whatever argument they like. If the appeal judge throws your verdict out, what's that do to your re-election prospects?"

There was silence on the other end of the line as the judge thought this over. The media attention had, thus far, been in his favor. But the Queens _did_ have the wherewithal to appeal - and quite likely get what they saw as an overly harsh verdict thrown out entirely. 

"A more lenient judgment that sticks is better than a tougher one that gets overturned," Quentin offered. And an idea struck him; one that might at least warn his daughter that manipulating him like this had its own penalties. "You want a poster child? How about you sentence her to community service and probation. Rich kid like her, picking up trash in the park? Photo ops galore. And you get to say you're a reformer. Rehabilitation."

Again, the judge didn't say anything for a long moment. "I do not trust the Queens to see that she serves her sentence," he replied at last, proving to Quentin that he wasn't an idiot. "I want a guardian appointed to see to it she serves her sentence. She does _not_ get to bully some poor shopkeeper or park ranger into signing off on service hours she hasn't done."

That would be Laurel, Quentin knew. Oliver and the Queens would never stand for Thea being out in the park picking up trash. They'd want a quiet indoor job out of the way. And Laurel's law office was not only eligible for such service, Laurel herself was already involved up to her eyebrows. Oliver would pressure her to take Thea in. Such was the danger in getting involved with people who thought money could buy off consequence.

And Laurel would get her own measure of payback for putting him through this. "That sounds perfectly reasonable to me, your honor," he said in his best humble tone.

~*~

He met with Laurel the following morning, after his night shift had ended. He dropped by her office and presented the manila folder with all the paperwork relating to Thea's new sentence on her desk.

"What happened?" asked Laurel, picking it up.

"Got you the best deal Thea's going to get," said Quentin gruffly. "Best take it."

Laurel opened the file, looking it over. "In loco parentis?" she asked. "But -"

"You know how community service goes with rich kids," said Quentin, shaking his head. "Mommy or Daddy goes around threatening some nonprofit manager until they agree to fake the paperwork. Kid never actually does a minute of service. Brackett wants to make sure Thea takes her medicine. Oh, and expect cameras. She's still his poster child."

Laurel pursed her lips, giving her father a look that said she knew quite well that he could've gotten a better deal if he'd wanted to. He returned the look with one that said, just as clearly, he really didn't want to, wasn't going to, and if she didn't like it the subject of prison time could always be returned to the table.

This time it was Laurel who looked away, and closed the file. "Thank you," she said.

Quentin nodded, said, "Welcome," and headed out.

~*~

Once back at the precinct, he was all but cornered by Detective Hall. "Glad you're back. We've got news."

Quentin's eyebrows raised. "Yeah?" he asked, interested.

"Word is a deal's going down, tonight," said Hall. "Russian mob and the Count. We've got details of where and when." She grinned. "Wanna come?"

Quentin nodded. "Hell yeah," he replied, but thought, _Word from the mob? Is that normal?_ It wasn't his normal turf, but something felt ...odd. Nothing he could put a finger on, though, so he put on his best enthusiasm-face and prepared to join the sting squad.

Wherever she got her info, the department felt it was good. He could tell by the fact that three squad cars were assigned to the task. He joined Detective Metz in his car and they headed out.

"Parking garage?" asked Quentin, noting the address.

"Not a bad place for a meet," said Metz. "For this kind of thing. Limited entrances and exits, but a lot of places to hide and good vantages for sniping. We're going in fast and hard, so you might want to take your weapon out."

Quentin did so, checking the fit of his jacket over his bulletproof vest while doing so. Whenever cops had to fire guns, it was a sure bet the other guys were packing more and bigger guns.

"We're late," said Metz, "Look there. Meeting's in progress." Picking up his radio he said, "Move in!"

As all three squad cars went lights-on and hit the gas to try and cut off avenues of escape, the meeting participants scattered to their various vehicles.

Detective Metz slammed on the brakes, letting Quentin get out, using the door for a shield as he drew his gun and yelled, "SCPD! Put your weapons down!"

Not that it did any good, but law enforcement had protocols to observe.

Naturally, of course, a firefight ensued. And for a few dangerous seconds, Quentin was focused on trying to stop the Count's SUV and not-die to really note faces or names.

When the dust settled, there was one casualty - not a cop - but no arrests. The Russians and the Count had gotten away. Quentin kept his mouth shut. This was a joint task force, but Vice's turf, and the targets had gotten away. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't reflect badly on Vice, and right now they would be more than likely to return fire and lay the blame at the untrained personnel involved in the sting.

Detective Hall approached; her car had been the last to arrive. "Sergeant," she said quietly. "A word?"

Something in her tone told Quentin that she wasn't interested in laying blame. She was puzzled. Concerned. He straightened and walked off to one side with her, out of easy earshot of the other officers. "Yeah?"

"Did you get a good look at any of them?" she asked in a low tone.

"Not really, no," said Quentin, wondering where this was going.

"I did," said Hall. "I'm pretty sure I saw Oliver with the Russians."

_Oh, crap._ Apparently not dressed as the Hood, either, why - "He's opening a night club," he realized aloud. 

"I _gave_ Oliver that file on the Count," said Hall, and she sounded ashamed of it now. "I've got to question him about this."

"Maybe I should go with you," said Quentin slowly. "The Queens take this kind of thing badly. Better they just hate me than both of us."

_You had to learn not to do favors for the Queens sometime, kid_.

~*~

Vice did not, as a rule, need to talk to the wealthy elite at their homes. This was not because the wealthy didn't do drugs. Rather, by the time vice could reasonably get hold of them _for_ doing drugs, they were often no longer wealthy. Or, in some cases, breathing. Detective Hall was thus feeling more than a bit far from her home turf.

Quentin, though, had done this enough times to steady her. They knocked on the door, and a servant showed them to a sitting room and offered refreshments (which both of them refused) while they gathered the Queens from their separate corners of the mansion. 

Moire was first to arrive, formal and polite and defensive as usual. "Good afternoon, detectives, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

Quentin silenced Hall with a look, and said firmly, "We're here to see Oliver. We'll wait for him."

Moire didn't seem especially surprised to hear that - though, possibly, relieved that it _wasn't_ Thea again - and took a seat in a chair.

Oliver entered with Diggle on his heels, quick and predatory, which told Quentin he was angry about something. Possibly, of course, that there were policemen in his house again. "What's wrong? Is everything okay with Thea?"

Quentin stood up, because damned if he was going to tilt his head back to look up at Oliver. "This isn't about your sister," he said calmly, "this is about you."

Oliver just raised both hands briefly, in a show of puzzled _what the hell?_

"Last night," Quentin continued, "we got a call from a CI, busted up a drug sale between a bigtime dealer and the russian mob." He nodded in an _as you already know_ manner, which Oliver deflected with a continued show of puzzlement.

"We?" Oliver asked, and gave Detective Hall his best, _you know me, how could this be true?_ look. "I thought you worked vice?"

As Quentin had thought, Oliver was acting as if he, Quentin, were the witness. He had no idea he was cementing things in Hall's mind. The look she returned was not unkind, but not entirely friendly either. "Joint task force," she said quietly. "Vertigo's got everybody holding hands."

" _Like I said_ ," Quentin continued, hoping to force Oliver to focus on himself and not on Hall, "Last night, drug deal, gone south." He started walking toward Oliver, forcing the other to focus on him and not Hall. "An eyewitness puts _you_ at the scene."

Oliver just calmly looked Quentin in the eye and said, "Whoever he is, he's mistaken." He nodded slightly, as if to say, _I know you know but I'm not going to help your case._

"Yeah?" said Quentin, thinking, _Gotcha._ As they stared each other down, McKenna Hall was watching it all.

When she stopped the staring contest by saying, " _I_ saw you, Oliver," he actually looked away. Looked, for a moment, regretful. Caught, but never guilty.

"Is this true?" asked Moire, of Oliver. From her tone she wasn't even going to try acting outraged just yet. Her children had not exactly been well behaved of late, after all.

Oliver paused a moment or two, and then said to Hall, "I was checking into the Count. He's the guy who sold drugs to Thea. And I figured if I could find out what he looked like, then I could give _your_ sketch artists something to go on." Shifting his attention to Quentin, he finished, "So I paid a lowlife with a Russian accent an obscene amount of money to arrange a meeting."

Quentin just stared, jaw dropped. It was an _impressive_ bit of impromptu alibi creation. He could see from Hall's face that she wasn't exactly buying it either. But that wasn't the point. The point was that it explained his presence at the scene well enough that a good lawyer - and the Queens always got the best - would have a field day with it. Quentin had to admit to the quality of the bullshit-work, if nothing else.

Hall, willing to work with it, asked, "And, did you get eyes on him?"

"No," Oliver replied.

Quentin didn't buy _that_ for a moment. Oliver had a lead. He just didn't want to share it. But his thoughts were interrupted by Moire, who had her own agenda.

"All right," she said, getting right to the point, "are you pressing charges against my son?"

Quentin studied Oliver, finally exhaling tightly. The alibi was tight enough under the circumstances that it wasn't worth the city's time to prosecute. And he could hate that forever but it didn't change the facts. Once again, Oliver was going to walk. "You get involved in this again, you'll see the inside of a cell," and he spoke faster, because it was getting harder not to pretend Oliver being above the law wasn't _really_ annoying, "and unlike last time _you will not see the way out_."

He turned on his heel to stalk out, before his mouth got him put on report again, leaving Detective Hall to be polite at Moire.

But Oliver followed after him. "Detective - "

Quentin paused, wondering what on earth Oliver wanted to say now. It couldn't be another lie. They both knew he didn't buy Oliver's stories. Oliver wouldn't waste the breath to convince him.

"Thank you, for what you did for Thea," said Oliver quietly.

Quentin just stared at him. _You arrogant bastard, you think I did it for YOU?_ "My _daughter_ asked me for a favor," he replied flatly, "and I did it. And that's the end of it." _I am so not your pet cop._

This time, when he turned to leave, Oliver let him go. A few minutes later, Detective Hall - looking shamefaced - followed after him. Outside, he gritted, "I really hope you didn't buy any of that crap he was selling."

Detective Hall stared at him, at his visible frustration and anger. "I can see why the brass wants you to stay away from that house," she said firmly.

But after a few minutes of silence, on the drive back to the precinct, she added, "I don't believe him either," in a tone that suggested she was thinking she'd lost a friend.

On Quentin's advice, she prepared a witness statement but didn't file it with the rest of her report. Rather, she did as he'd been doing and set it aside, to be put with other evidence later - as and when such evidence appeared. You couldn't arrest a Queen lightly; the case had to be ironclad.

~*~

They got another shot at the Count, though. Whoever Vice's informant was, their tip was solid; the Count's main laboratory was in an abandoned juvenile detention center in the Glades.

But only two cars were dispatched this time. Hall approached Quentin almost sheepishly. "Wanna take another crack at this?"

Quentin just nodded. He'd seen Oliver's face. The Hood was not going to let the Count go; he'd just be more careful in his getaway. It was raining by the time they arrived.

"My CI swears this is the place," said Hall as they got out; she held her gun lowered but ready for trouble and Quentin followed suit. 

"Bring your men up on the flank," he said, nodding to one of the entrances, and the two split up. Quentin took two officers with him to the side stairs, and found bodies. Oh good, he'd managed to wind up following the Hood's trail. They didn't all look dead, though - just unconscious. "Looks like we're not the only guests."

If the bodies weren't enough, he could just hear gunfire echoing through the halls. The Count's men knew the Hood was here. Or the cops, or both, but probably the Hood. He and the other officers followed the sound as quickly as they dared - faster when it stopped - and found a smashed lab, unconscious or dead bodies, and the Hood pressing a syringe into someone. When he heard the police approaching, the Hood shifted position so that the man he was holding served as a human shield.

"Freeze!" shouted Quentin. "Put down the needle, or I will shoot you!"

When the Hood didn't respond, Quentin repeated, "Put down the syringe!" and started approaching slowly.

"He deserves this!" snarled the Hood.

Quentin didn't halt his approach, and the other officers followed his lead. "Not according to the law!" he snapped. "People that think you're a hero, people like my daughter, if they could see you now?" He put all the venom he had no other way to vent into his voice. "You're no hero. You're what I always said you were. A killer."

He met Oliver's camoflaged eyes, daring him to admit it. He wasn't _entirely_ surprised that Oliver looked away first, withdrawing the syringe and shoving his captive at the police to slow them down as he made his escape. He shouted, "Get him!" at Hall as she and her team entered the room, and then looked at his prisoner. Said prisoner looked to be in a _very_ bad way. Quentin took out his radio and sent, "Get me an ambulance. Now."

The Hood got away. Of course. But they arrested everyone still breathing, identified the Hood's prisoner as the infamous Count, and confiscated all the drug making paraphenalia in the building - which was, it turned out, quite a lot even _after_ the Hood's damage to said was taken into account. Vertigo would be effectively off the streets.

Which was, of course, what the Hood had wanted.

By the time dawn rolled around Quentin was ready for a long nap. Hall was on swing, and he left the last paperwork to her.

_The day you care as much for everyone else as you do for your sister, I'll have a much happier life._

~*~

There was just one last thing. Before reporting in the next night for duty, Quentin stopped by Starling General to see what condition the Count was in.

That condition could be summed up as 'raving'. The Count was sweating, pale, wide-eyed, struggling, and gagged. He looked like a torture victim with an invisible torturer.

"He's still critical," said the doctor, clearly horrified at what was happening to the man. "I've never seen anyone OD on this much vertigo and live. There's just no way of knowing what kind of damage has been done to his brain and nervous system, or if it's irreparable."

Quentin watched the Count being wheeled away, frothing and struggling and screaming. Was this an improvement, for the Hood? The man was still alive. He might one day recover, theoretically. But was that better than death?

No, he decided. It wasn't. The Hood was not improving. He cared only for himself and his family and everyone else, apparently, could rot screaming in an asylum or in the ground and it probably didn't make any real difference to him which it was.

( _He deserves this!_ ) 

This had not been any kind of justice. This was a rich boy's vengeance on someone who had hurt his family, nothing more.

Shaking his head, Quentin left the hospital to go clock in. Oliver's fury had left a trail this time. A very strong motive correlation. It was worth adding to the Hood's evidence file.


End file.
